


Surviving

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-22 14:55:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 84,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3733090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your only job is to survive.” Athos' voice caught on the last word and d’Artagnan could feel the amount of fear the man held for him. He could not deny his friend so he gave a shaky nod, promising himself that he would survive for as long as possible, the only question being, would it be enough?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Spring everyone! I'm happy to be back with another story which builds off of events that occurred in episode 2.06. I've taken some liberties with the episode and have used some of what happened up to that point while ignoring other details. The story diverges after this episode before dovetailing with the end of season 2 so there will be spoilers. I hope you enjoy!

It was the sound of raised voices that pulled Treville from his office, bringing him instead to stand on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, shivering slightly in the coolness of early spring. While most of the snow had begun to melt, there were still spots that hovered in shade where the piles of white clung determinedly, refusing to lose their grip until the warmer temperatures overcame them in several weeks’ time. It had been a long and harsh winter, the snowfalls they’d endured making travel difficult and he was aware of the fact that many in Paris, and especially in the surrounding farms and villages, had not survived its cruelty.

 

His attention was drawn to the men below who, despite the frigid temperatures, were gathered around the table. Treville frowned at their body language and the tone of their words, all indications that things were uneasy between them. It had been like this for several months now, slowly overwhelming the seemingly unbreakable bonds that had made the inseparables his best men, their loyalty to one another renowned and indestructible. At first, the disagreements were minor in nature, easily forgiven and forgotten and not unusual among men who spent as much time together as these four did. Then he began to notice the widening cracks among them, their taunts possessing a razor sharp edge that meant to cut instead of tease; the way in which their playful nudges and claps on the back took on more force, bruising not only the muscle and skin but the men’s spirits, pushing them further away from one another, where previously they had been drawn closer.

 

He’d believed initially that things would blow over as they usually did, having been completely unable to fathom any act that could drive a wedge between these men and yet, months later, he was witnessing with his own eyes how deeply divided these men had become, seldom able to be in one another’s company without some argument or another springing forth. As he observed the men with a critical eye, he noted the distance between Athos and Aramis, the two physically separated from each other, even though they were on the same side of the table. Aramis was speaking and, while there was a smile on his face, his eyes were dark and flat, belying whatever he was saying. The Spaniard reached forward, crossing the space between the two men to briefly clasp Athos’ shoulder and Treville could have sworn he saw the older man flinch, a momentary flash of something crossing his features before his usual, stoic mask could reassert itself.

 

The months since Milady’s return to Paris had been incredibly difficult for Athos, the man confused by her apparent attempts to live as a law abiding citizen warring with what Athos knew of her past. It was painful, really, watching the man continuously remain on his guard as he waited for each new day to bring the treachery he was anticipating, while at the same time, struggling with the feelings he still held for her. It was true, Treville mused, love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and Athos precariously walked the fine edge between the two every day.

 

Treville had hoped that his brothers’ presence would be enough to keep Athos grounded and sane, but had seen him return to his previous coping methods, often shocked at how ill and hung over the man appeared the following day. Sadly, Athos at his worst was still a finer soldier than many others in the regiment and, while Treville abhorred it, the reality was that until Athos’ ability to perform his duties was impeded, he had no grounds to intervene. As a result, the once well-groomed Musketeer, who’s noble bearing shone through even when dressed as a soldier, had devolved into a shell of his former self, his hair and beard too long and unruly, his face sallow and gaunt, a reflection of his body’s poor treatment.

 

As sullen and moody as Athos had become, Aramis was his exact opposite, seemingly trying harder to adopt an air of optimism in the face of his brother’s despair. His voice was louder, his laughter more raucous, his gestures more flamboyant and his stories more outlandish; in truth, he seemed a ridiculous parody of his former self. d’Artagnan was willing to play along, his life, at least from an outsider’s perspective, seeming ideal now that he’d reconciled with Madame Bonacieux, but he could see the lines of tension in the young man’s face and neck, his shoulders taut as bowstrings, ready to snap.

 

The Gascon had found brotherhood among the Musketeers and more – perhaps a replacement father figure in Athos – and Treville knew that the boy did not understand nor approve of his mentor’s self-destructive behaviours. In earlier days, d’Artagnan had remained at Athos’ side, drinking and commiserating with him and ensuring he made it home, but as time had drifted on, the Gascon’s patience had waned and he’d become openly critical, even disgusted, when it came to his mentor’s drinking and late nights. Athos had never believed he deserved d’Artagnan’s love and respect, but it was apparent that the loss of both weighed heavily on his shoulders and widened the fissures that had appeared between them. Treville knew that the young man seldom joined his brothers after hours, choosing to spend his time with his lady love instead, although, to be fair, none of them seemed to spend much time together outside of their duties any more.

 

Treville’s eyes drifted to Porthos who stood on the other side of the table, watching and listening but apparently disinterested in the banter was currently taking place between Athos and Aramis. Porthos had become obsessed with the idea of finding his father and Aramis had supported him for a time, but with Treville’s denial of any knowledge, his leads had dried up quickly and the Spaniard had soon lost interest, his own mind occupied elsewhere. The large man resented both Treville and Aramis for their refusal to help, seeing their decisions as an act of betrayal, and nothing that either of them did was able to change his mind. Porthos had turned to the seedier taverns in town to chase away the ghosts of his past, cheating almost brazenly in the card games he sought out and engaging in brawls on an almost nightly basis, seemingly uncaring what happened to him. In the past, the other three would have stopped his destructive behaviour, but now, all they did was sigh and shrug their shoulders, not lifting a hand to change things, nor even trying to dissuade the man from his evening pursuits.

 

Athos’ voice reached Treville’s ears and it was apparent that the man had said something in response to Aramis’ earlier prodding. Aramis’ face clouded at the older man’s words and he visibly drew back from his friend, obviously not liking what had been said. The frown on Treville’s face deepened as he watched, d’Artagnan and Porthos sitting indifferently and obviously with no intention of interceding, while Athos looked almost satisfied by the look of hurt that now graced the Spaniard’s face. It was astonishing that these four men, who had once held such love for each other, had allowed their hearts to harden, callousness replacing affection, compassion supplanted by contempt. If anyone had suggested such a possibility, he would have called them daft, these four willing to die for one another, spilling blood many times over in defense of the others.

 

Now they were broken, shadows of their former selves, and merely surviving as they sleepwalked through each day to the next. They reminded Treville of men in a three-legged race, unable to find their balance with one another, jostling and hurting their friends as they battled to deal with their individual burdens. Where there had been a finely-tuned group of soldiers, fitting together as well as the most intricate timepiece, now sat a group of shattered men, each still playing a part but no longer complementing the others. Treville knew that the discord between them had begun to affect their duties as well, and had considered separating them on future missions, fearful that their disdain for each other would bring about injury or death. It had not happened yet, he reminded himself gratefully, but his concern grew with each report he received of their quarreling, and with each awkward stare their fellow Musketeers threw their way at the mocking and hurtful behaviours that had now become the norm in their interactions. He cared for all the men in his command, but with these four, his feelings were almost paternal in nature. As a result, the current situation had him experiencing feelings of guilt and sorrow at watching his “family” falling apart.

 

Drawing a deep breath of cool air into his lungs, Treville knew the time had come to act and he could no longer ignore the strife that existed between the men. He needed them for a mission and it could not be compromised because of their infighting. Decision made, he called to them, four faces turning to look in his direction almost at once. “My office, now,” he ordered gruffly, retreating inside, the cold settling into his bones not just due to the temperature outside, but because of the orders he would now need to deliver.

 

The heavy footfalls outside announced the men’s arrival and Treville steadied himself, sitting down at his desk and clasping his hands together where they lay on the polished oak. The four filed in and stood loosely at attention, giving the Captain an opportunity to examine them up close. As he’d suspected, Athos’ eyes crinkled against the headache that was no doubt throbbing within the confines of his skull, proof of another night spent drowning himself in an effort to escape the world. Porthos stood with his back ramrod straight, broad chest and shoulders almost thrust forwards in contempt at the man who sat in front of him. Aramis’ posture was more relaxed as it always was, lips quirking politely but the appearance of pleasantness not dispelling the coldness of his eyes. d’Artagnan stood as he nearly always did, thumbs hooked in his belt, feet firmly planted, but his expression had matured, the naiveté of youth gone and Treville could see the creases that furrowed his brow, a clear sign that he was troubled and had been for some time.

 

Clearing his throat, Treville began, “You’ll be leaving tomorrow for Le Havre where you’re to deliver a package to an English envoy. Due to the somewhat _sensitive_ nature of this delivery, there will be two groups travelling, one of which will act as a decoy for the other.” He could see Athos’ eyebrow lift at his statement as Porthos leaned forward incrementally, his curiosity momentarily overcoming his resentment.

 

“What makes this delivery so special?” Athos asked, already recognizing the unusual nature of the orders they were receiving.

 

Looking down at this hands for a second, Treville almost considered keeping the information to himself, but decided they had the right to know why they would be risking their lives. “It is from the King to his sister, Henrietta Marie.” He saw understanding dawn on Athos’ face, while the others still waited for more. “His sister is married to the King of England and sentiments have, as of late, been decidedly anti-English.”

 

Aramis tipped his head in understanding as he countered, “Why isn’t this package going through the usual couriers? Surely, they would be far better equipped than us to ensure its safe arrival.”

 

Treville gave a small nod of agreement, “Normally, you’d be correct, however recent attempts have encountered difficulties and failed.”

 

“What kind of _difficulties_?” Porthos asked, his keen senses already tuned to what the Captain hadn’t yet shared.

 

Breathing deeply, Treville explained, “Yours will be the third attempted delivery.” d’Artagnan’s eyes widened at the news while Porthos let out a low whistle. “Both previous attempts ended in failure with lives lost on both sides. The King grows impatient and has demanded that the package get through this time.”

 

“Why not send the Red Guards?” Athos asked, “They’re far better suited to the task of running errands.”

 

The comment was borderline disrespectful and Treville gave Athos a hard glare before admitting, “The Red Guards have already tried and failed. For that reason, this will be a joint mission between ourselves and the Red Guard, with each contributing men to the effort.” Already the men seemed ready to protest, Aramis’ stance hardening as Porthos drew a breath to voice his protest. “This is not negotiable. We need the numbers and I have too many men away for us to handle this ourselves. Look,” he took a steadying breath and lowered his voice, “I know there is no love lost between us, but we must make this work somehow. In the King’s eyes, you are all his soldiers to command and it is his decision that this will be a cooperative effort between our two regiments.”

 

He could see that the men were clearly still uneasy, but also sensed that they would carry out their orders. Of course, that could still change when he told them the rest. He had no choice but to divide the group, placing two Musketeers with three Red Guards, per the King’s orders. The question was how to separate them. Athos and Aramis seemed at odds for some reason, and d’Artagnan clearly and vocally disapproved of his mentor’s behaviour, causing the older man to withdraw further into himself. Matching Athos with either of them might mean an opportunity for them to clear the air or it could spell disaster, igniting flames where there were currently only smoldering embers. Similarly, Aramis and Porthos were at odds and might benefit from some time together, or their forced companionship could be the final push they needed to come to blows.

 

Seeing that the men were still waiting for him to finish, he decided, “Athos, you and Porthos will be in one group while d’Artagnan and Aramis will be in the other. You’ll each be paired with three Red Guards, which should give you enough strength to repel any forces you encounter along the way. You have the rest of the day to prepare yourselves,” Treville finished. “Report here in the morning to receive your final orders.”

 

The men nodded, their faces telegraphing their dissatisfaction with the upcoming mission, but also the fact that they were resigned to carry out their orders. When they’d departed and the door had closed, Treville let out a sigh of relief, somewhat surprised at his reaction since he usually felt worry for his men when he sent them out. Scrubbing a hand across his face he promised himself – when the men returned, this situation would have to be dealt with, regardless of the outcome; no matter what, none of them could not continue on in this fashion. 

* * *

The four descended the stairs to the courtyard, each lost in their own thoughts about the Captain’s orders and mentally preparing a list of what would need to be accomplished before they departed Paris. Normally, the process of preparing for a mission was one that involved conversation and the delegation of duties by Athos; in this instance, the men simply separated, each moving in a different direction, to take care of his own needs. From an outsider’s perspective it might seem that the men were simply in tune with one another, knowing implicitly each person’s role in their foursome, moving without need for discussion to attend to their duties before coming together again with all tasks accomplished. The reality, however, was vastly different, the men having fallen into a routine of caring only for themselves, where before they would have placed the needs of their brothers first. It was another painful reminder of how far removed they were from their former title of inseparables.

 

d’Artagnan hesitated in the courtyard for a moment, considering speaking with his friends and offering to take care of their horses’ needs, but his hesitation cost him and the opportunity slipped from his grasp as the others moved away to make their own arrangements. The Gascon sighed sadly, not wanting his distress to show on his face but the continued discord between them wearing on him. He was uncertain how it had begun, but knew that he hated every second of what they had become – distant, unfeeling, withdrawn.

 

He moved to the stable, intending to check the condition of his tack, picking up a brush instead and applying it to his horse’s flank, losing himself in his memories as he worked. He could still recall how he’d been drawn to the camaraderie of the Musketeers, the loyalty and friendship a commission offered too tantalizing to resist. It had been the reason he’d worked so diligently in his training, accompanying his friends into dangerous situations, despite the fact that he’d been only a raw recruit. These men had offered him a chance to belong and be part of something larger than himself, the satisfaction he gained from serving at their sides more intoxicating than anything he’d ever experienced.

 

Their early days had been filled with adventure and brotherhood and, even when circumstances conspired against them, the solidarity he shared with the Musketeers had buoyed him as it had the others. For a time it seemed that nothing could defeat them, the Musketeers’ motto proving true as each time they overcame whatever lay in their path, each man’s strength redoubled when surrounded by their brothers.

 

Then the Dauphin was born and things began to shift, the relationship between Athos and Aramis becoming strained, but still intact. d’Artagnan could sense that there was something more between them, but neither man had ever volunteered any information and it was clear that neither would welcome questions from the other two men. Porthos had instinctively reacted to the tension that appeared, gravitating to the Spaniard’s side as he had often in the past, ready to listen and support him as was inherent in the large man’s nature. Surprisingly, he’d been soundly rebuffed and the hurt on Porthos’ face was worse than that of any wound he’d ever suffered in battle, d’Artagnan still able to recall clearly how the man had seemingly diminished in size right before his eyes at Aramis’ curt words.

 

Next came Porthos’ need to learn about his father, denied a family from his youngest years, now grasping at the barest of information and convinced that Treville kept the secret he so desperately sought. While the large Musketeer had put on a brave face, the Captain’s refusal to help severed another strand of the web of loyalty that bound the men together, the act seen as a betrayal by a man who Porthos had not only followed and defended, but respected and loved.

 

He’d turned to Aramis for help in the Captain’s stead and the Spaniard had made a half-hearted attempt, withdrawing his assistance after only a short time, stating that the task was impossible, but clearly consumed by his own concerns. When Porthos had joined the Musketeers, Aramis had been the first man to accept him, seeing a talented soldier and loyal comrade, where others only saw the colour of his skin. That his first true friend would now turn away from him, not once, but twice, broke something in the larger man and he’d pulled away from them since, possibly shielding himself from the others in an effort to avoid any future disappointment and pain.    

 

The cause of Athos’ pain was also obvious, his drinking and moodiness escalating shortly after Milady’s return to Paris, the situation exacerbated by her relationship with the King, essentially making Athos her cuckold husband. For a time, all three of them had tried to help, making sure that he didn’t drink alone, managing to temper the amounts he consumed, and carrying him back to his rooms on those nights when his demons overwhelmed him. Slowly, as the rift appeared between him and Aramis, the latter left the older man in the hands of his friends until, eventually, d’Artagnan was the only one left at his mentor’s side.

 

At first, the Gascon didn’t mind taking care of Athos, understanding the deep hurt that his friend was nursing and seeing his role as a privilege of the friendship that had grown between them; but, when Constance reaffirmed her feelings for him, he could not help but want to spend every spare moment at her side and had reluctantly followed in his friends’ footsteps, abandoning the man to wallow alone in his drink. To his shame, it had taken several days before he even realized how much his decision had hurt Athos, the man lashing out at him by speaking against his relationship with a married woman. Rather than empathizing with his friend’s plight, d’Artagnan contributed to the discord between them by attacking Athos’ drinking, at one point resorting to calling him a worthless drunk who would likely get them all killed.

 

Wincing as he recalled his harsh words, d’Artagnan wished he could say that he was blameless in all that had transpired but knew that was far from the truth. In addition to his own quarrels with Athos, he’d done nothing to try and ease relations between the other men, nor had he offered his help to Porthos, even though he knew firsthand the pain of losing one’s family. In recent weeks he’d wondered frequently if there was still time to change things; time to step in, speak with his friends, and find a way that they could heal the wounds each had inflicted upon the others. But then his courage would flag and he remained silent, becoming just as withdrawn as the others or forcing a casualness that was no longer the case, replaced long ago with awkward conversation and strained periods of silence that had the men departing each other’s company as soon as they were able.

 

Now, it seemed that others had noticed how fractured their group was as well, the Captain splitting their foursome which was something d’Artagnan was certain would never have happened in the past. Additionally, none of them had argued against Treville’s orders, more upset at the fact that they’d be working with Red Guards than the fact that they’d be unable to protect their brothers’ backs.

 

As d’Artagnan considered all that had happened, he realized that they stood at a crossroads. They had no choice but to move along one of the paths presented to them, but the question was which one they would choose. Would they fight to return to the kinship they once shared, putting aside pride and hurt feelings in order to forgive the others and put things behind them? Or, would they continue on their path of destruction, facing the world together but alone, eventually drifting apart permanently until the only thing uniting them was the uniforms they wore?

 

Letting his head fall against his horse’s neck, d’Artagnan closed his eyes, hand still holding the brush he’d been using where it rested on the animal’s flank. His heart told him that he was not yet ready to lose these men, regardless of the happiness he’d found with Constance. Her love filled an important void in his life, but it would never replace all he gained from his brothers’ acceptance. Inhaling deeply, d’Artagnan came to his decision – they could not continue this way and he would fight to make things right between them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a finality to the moment that Athos recognized and he knew that the argument they’d just had would not be one they could easily recover from; indeed, it might mark the beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response to this story and especially to those who have decided to leave comments and kudos. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The next day found the men once more standing around the table in the courtyard, each man lost in his own thoughts as they waited for the Red Guards to appear so they might receive their final orders and depart. Each man had arrived by himself, nodding in greeting to the others and then moving to take care of their own last-minute preparations, packing saddlebags, ensuring horses were saddled, checking weapons and having a bite to eat. Occasionally, one of them would glance upwards in the direction of the Captain’s office, eager to be on their way so they might at least have the excuse of riding to avoid the awkward silences that had replaced their easy conversations.

 

When the Red Guards arrived, the four Musketeers exchanged glances, and d’Artagnan was reminded of how attuned they’d been to one another, the moment painfully reminiscent of their past affinity. Then, a door above them slammed closed and the moment was gone, the men’s eyes breaking contact as they waited for Treville to descend. That didn’t stop the Musketeers from eyeing the Red Guards with trepidation and disdain, the relatively minor but frequent past skirmishes between the two straining relations between the regiments, promising several interesting and tension-filled days ahead of them. As Treville made his way down the stairs, he noted the glares that each group was already throwing toward the other, internally sighing and forcing himself not to wince at the headache that had taken root at the base of his skull the day prior, when he’d given his men their orders.

 

When he reached the courtyard, he positioned himself between both groups, the men having made a rough circle as they waited for him to arrive. Glancing from one side to the other, he forced a neutral expression on his face, knowing that he still had to decide who would be travelling with whom and then entrust the package he held to one of the two groups, thus increasing the danger to those men exponentially. His first instinct was to pass the item to Athos, he and Porthos possessing both the strategic and physical abilities needed to see the mission to completion. On the other hand, Aramis’ ability with a harquebus was second to none and he had been a soldier longer than either of the other two men, his experience combined with d’Artagnan’s youthful energy and incredible luck making the two groups almost equally matched.

 

Although he knew what his men expected him to do, he strode toward Aramis and d’Artagnan, handing over the package which was roughly the side of a large loaf of bread, although much, much heavier. Aramis traded looks with the Gascon and then glanced in Athos’ direction, correctly reading the minor look of surprise on the older man’s face and, with a slight sense of satisfaction, took the canvas sack from Treville. The Captain noticed the expressions on their faces but ignored them, reminding himself again that they would deal with this later.

 

Stepping back, he raked his eyes over the Red Guards, the men still stone-faced and impatient to depart. Having no knowledge of the men, he randomly pointed to three and assigned them to accompany d’Artagnan and Aramis, leaving the three others to join Athos and Porthos. Turning back to the men he’d entrusted with the King’s package, he said, “Take the northern route through Rouen. It may add a day or two to your trip, but that can’t be helped. The ship you seek is the _Bonaventure_ and the envoy will be expecting you. ” Speaking to the others next, “You’ll stay south, through Louviers. When you arrive in Le Havre, meet up at the docks and then travel back together. Remember, two previous groups have failed in the task you’re now undertaking.” The implied warning was understood by all of the Musketeers and they gave short nods of acknowledgement at the Captain’s words.

 

With that, Treville turned and ascended the stairs, stopping at the top to watch as his men mounted and then exited through the garrison gates. With a hint of a smile, he noted that the four inseparables were currently riding together, unconsciously still drawn together despite the fact that they’d soon have to spilt up and head in different directions. Perhaps there was still hope after all.

* * *

Athos was uneasy. Despite the strain that now coloured their relations, the idea of being separated from d’Artagnan grated on him. He still felt enough for the other two to worry over their welfare as well, but they, at least, were experienced soldiers, each having proven themselves both independently and as part of their trio many times over. No matter that d’Artagnan had successfully completed numerous missions since joining their ranks, he would always be the youngest and the most inexperienced of their group. Even as things had shifted between them, Athos had remained steadfast in his protectiveness of the Gascon, taking extra care whenever they were on duty together to ensure that nothing happened to the boy. He knew that d’Artagnan would resent him for his actions, but Athos could not shake off the deep feelings he held toward the young man, no matter what transpired between them.

 

That, he reflected, was the source of all his pain – he felt too deeply. Athos wondered if the admission would surprise his friends who’d at times called him cold-hearted, dispassionate and even calculating, but that was only the case when he knew he had to harden his heart in order to protect those he loved. Unfortunately, it was a task that was often easier said than done, and it was the cause of his current predicament. When Milady had returned and he’d had no choice but to have to interact with her, his heart had once more begun to crack, the emotions he’d thought buried erupting with almost violent force and he found himself nearly gasping at the onslaught.

 

His wife – he couldn’t help but still think of her as that – had gone out of her way to make him uncomfortable and had insinuated that his and his friends’ safety was at risk, should he get in her way. As he watched her weave her spell, bringing the King to his knees in more ways than one, succumbing to her many charms as he himself had, he could not help but feel a pang of jealousy, craving to feel her skin under his fingertips and to taste her lips once more.

 

The strong emotions drove him to drink, feeling at once both shame and guilt at the thoughts he was having about his murderous wife. He knew that his friends had tried to keep him sane, joining him in drink and ensuring he returned to his apartments at the end of each desperate binge but, as the discord grew between them, he found each man slipping away from him in turn, the feelings of abandonment that resulted just as painful as his wife’s traitorous acts.

 

d’Artagnan’s derision of him had been the final straw, the young man having faithfully stood by his side throughout everything that had transpired, never standing in judgement and always treating him with kindness and compassion he felt he didn’t deserve. And now, it seemed, d’Artagnan agreed with the others and had withdrawn his support, and worse yet, his friendship. 

 

The realization had stunned him, taking his breath away and almost bringing him to his knees as he replayed d’Artagnan’s venomous words in his head, causing him to shudder.

 

_“Athos, you can’t continue on this way. What happened to the strong and honorable man I met when I arrived in Paris?” d’Artagnan pleaded, desperate to get through to the man he loved as a brother._

_Athos looked at him through wine soaked eyes, his vision dancing and blurring with every blink as he struggled to comprehend the boy’s words. Realizing the feat was beyond him, his thoughts too muddied by the alcohol that coursed through his veins, he gave a lopsided shrug._

_d’Artagnan huffed in frustration, his calm demeanor hardening as the last of his patience abandoned him. “Please, Athos, stop this. We’re all worried about you, even Constance…”_

_The older man looked up sharply at that, interrupting the Gascon, “Constance? Why would she care? Or is it that she worries that I keep you away from her bed at night?” The words were crass and unkind but Athos couldn’t help himself, wanting to be happy for the young man but unable to see past his own circumstances, reminded that d’Artagnan had cuckolded Bonacieux, a role that he could relate to since Milady had wormed her way into the King’s bedchamber._

_d’Artagnan jerked back as if slapped, shocked at Athos’ harsh words and peering at him as if searching for any sign of the man he once knew and admired. “What is your problem with Constance? After all, she was your friend long before I even arrived in Paris.” The Gascon knew that the look that accompanied his words was more accusatory than curious, but could not seem to soften his expression. Athos huffed in reply, the creases that furrowed d'Artagnan's brow deepening in response. The Gascon crossed his arms as he prepared to speak, “I never thought that you would be the one to be jealous of my happiness. Constance cares for you only because she is a good person, but I’m starting to think her concern is misplaced.”_

_The words washed over Athos and while he still had a hard time following them, he was aware enough to comprehend their meaning. “Love is fickle and exists only in the imagination of deluded men who lack enough life experience to know better.” Athos’ words stung more than d’Artagnan cared to admit but he bit his tongue as the older man continued. “All women exist only to bedevil us and Constance, no matter how sweet, will eventually break your heart, just as she has in the past.”_

_d’Artagnan’s face flushed, his hands curled into tight fists as he worked to contain his rage. “Just because you chose poorly, is no reason to speak such hateful things,” the Gascon hissed dangerously. “Because you are a man I once admired, I will allow this insult to pass as the foolhardy words of a drunk.” He rose from the table where they sat, preparing to leave. A hand on his arm paused his movement and his dark eyes landed on the hand for a moment before moving upwards to lock gazes with the older Musketeer. “Release me,” he spat, pulling his arm free with little effort, Athos’ senses dulled by the wine he’d consumed. “Change your ways, old man, before you kill not only yourself but the rest of us in the bargain.”_

_His chair scraped loudly as the young man stood, pushing his seat backwards and away from the table. His face held an expression of contempt and he shook his head once before turning on his heel and marching away from the man. Athos’ hand trembled as he reached for his wine glass, raising it clumsily to his lips and gulping desperately, watching the retreating form of his friend. There was a finality to the moment that Athos recognized and he knew that the argument they’d just had would not be one they could easily recover from; indeed, it might mark the beginning of the end._

 

“Oi,” Porthos called, “this is it.”

 

Athos blinked, bringing the road ahead of them into focus, stirring himself from the painful memories of the past. They had reached the point at which they would separate, two of their brothers heading northwest, while they continued on the more southerly route. He spared a glance at the other two men, Aramis sitting tall in the saddle, a look of confidence plastered on his face, seemingly unfazed by their imminent departure. d’Artagnan was a barely contained ball of energy, hands twisting the reins in his hands as he shifted in the saddle, eagerly awaiting the order that would have them moving forward to complete their mission.

 

Athos gave a short not as he said, “Keep your wits about you and be safe. If you reach Le Havre first, proceed directly to the ship and deliver your package. If you’re not there within 6 days, we’ll begin toward Paris, retracing your route.”

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan gave serious nods in return, their minds already on the task that lay ahead of them. Athos held both their gazes in turn as he finished, “Take care of yourselves.” The words were quiet, meant only for his two brothers and infused with concern.

 

Aramis gave him a devil-may-care smile as he replied, “You as well, my friends.” The statement was innocuous enough, one soldier wishing another luck, but the sentiment underlying it spoke of hope that the men might still resolve what now lay between them.

 

Porthos nodded in return, a grin gracing his face as he waved to his friends before wheeling his horse around, nudging it into a slow walk, Athos copying his actions moments later. As they travelled down the wet and somewhat still frozen road ahead of them, Athos felt a shiver climb up his spine, a sense of foreboding weighing heavily as they parted ways. 

* * *

Aramis pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the wind that now blew sending icy tendrils to seek out any exposed skin, caressing it with its frigid touch to make him shiver. He’d never been a fan of the cold weather and his dislike had only grown after Savoy. Granted, it was warmer now than it had been then, the first hints of spring chasing away the majority of snow, but in its place came rain, especially as they moved northward. The sharpshooter pulled his hat down more firmly as another gust of wind threatened to remove it from his head, shuddering involuntarily at the thought of being without it and leaving his head and face exposed to the elements.

 

As if sensing the men’s sombre mood, the rain had started shortly after they’d gone their separate ways and Aramis found himself wishing once more for the company of his friends; despite the terrible weather and the tension between them, being in their midst would still be far better than travelling with their current companions, the Red Guards riding behind them, quiet and sullen as they sulked at their assignment. He spared a sideways glance at d’Artagnan, the boy’s hair plastered to his face, and he wondered idly if the Gascon would ever decide to purchase a hat. The young man looked just as miserable as he felt, the water no doubt creeping into every nook and cranny, cooling against his skin with every bite of the wind.

 

Normally, they would look for shelter in weather such as this, seeking out an inn or even a welcoming farmhouse where they could warm themselves until the cold rains passed; this mission offered no such comforts, the need for stealth and speed their primary concerns. While the Red Guards had remained silent in their suffering, Aramis could tell from their hunched postures and pinched faces that their misery was as complete as his and d’Artagnan’s. Sighing, the Spaniard watched as his breath clouded in front of him, another indication of the coldness of the air around them. The skies above them were gray and the clouds full of moisture, and Aramis knew from experience that the weather was unlikely to break any time soon; that meant another several hours spent riding in wet clothes on similarly sodden mounts, likely to be followed by a night spent huddling on the cold, wet ground. These were the times that no one spoke of when retelling the rousing adventures of a soldier’s life.

 

An hour or so past noon, Aramis decided to call a halt to their procession, no one officially in charge of their group, but the man taking the lead regardless since Treville had entrusted him with the package. He’d spotted a building off to one side of the road which had likely at one time been someone’s home but now sat deserted and dilapidated, portions of the roof having fallen in and the door hanging crookedly off one hinge. It was far from perfect, but it would offer them a short respite from the relentless wind and rain. He whistled loudly, turning to look over his shoulder to confirm he had the guards’ attention. When it was clear that he did, he waved a hand toward the ramshackle house and one of the men nodded in understanding, likely just as relieved as Aramis to be able to dismount for a short time.

 

They tied their horses outside, the Red Guards beating a path inside while Aramis was still removing the package from his saddlebag, not willing to leave it outside unguarded, d’Artagnan waiting for him and shaking his head in disgust at the guards’ behaviour. Slipping sideways past the sagging door, the Musketeers were pleased to find the interior of the small house relatively dry, although just as cold as outside. Their three travelling companions had already claimed a corner off to one side as their own, sliding down to the floor and sharing the provisions they’d brought.

 

Aramis let his eyes ghost over them for only a moment before motioning to the other side of the room to another patch of dry ground, leading the way, knowing instinctively that d’Artagnan would follow. Both men sat on the hard-packed earth that made up the floor of the old house, d’Artagnan reaching into his saddlebag and withdrawing some bread and cheese, a portion of which he passed to Aramis, the latter nodding appreciatively.

 

The Gascon took a bite of bread as his eyes drifted again to the Red Guards who accompanied them. “Friendly bunch, aren’t they?”

 

Aramis couldn’t help but grin at the young man’s comment and swallowed before he replied, “Our two regiments have never been on the best of terms, but lately it seems worse than usual.”

 

d’Artagnan grunted in reply. “Think we can count on them in a fight?”

 

The Spaniard picked at his bread as he answered, “I’m confident that we can count on them.” He popped a small piece into his mouth and said as he chewed, “We can count on them to act like Red Guards and be concerned only with protecting their own useless hides.”

 

Aramis’ words pulled a huff of laughter from the boy and the Spaniard grinned in return. “We would’ve been better off with other Musketeers.” The sharpshooter hummed in reply, agreeing but knowing there was little to be done when the King commanded something. “Do you think Athos and Porthos are alright?” d’Artagnan continued.

 

Not that he would admit it, but a part of him worried about their friends as well. No doubt, both men would question whether the term _friend_ still applied to them, but Aramis still cared for them deeply; recent circumstances had simply divided his focus and he’d been hard-pressed to think about anything other than the Queen and her son. He knew from experience that Porthos had an incredibly forgiving nature and the man was likely to accept his apology if, no, _when_ he made amends. Athos was the more concerning of the two and he recognized that his transgression with the Queen could not be as easily forgiven. In Athos’ eyes the answer was clear – give up all thoughts of both Anne and the child; distance himself from them to protect them all. He understood the logic of his friend’s advice yet it was not his head that made this decision for him but his heart. No matter how he tried, the lure of the Queen’s tender kiss, the softness of his son’s cheek – they haunted his dreams and occasionally his waking moments as well, driving him almost mad in pursuit of something which he could never have.

 

Worst of all, he could never give Athos the one thing needed to secure the man's forgiveness - his word that he would never again seek the company of the Queen and the Dauphin; it simply was not within him to give and he could not bring himself to make a promise which he knew he would one day break. The result was that he had no idea how to fix things between them, wanting desperately to return to their previous kinship, but having no clue about how to accomplish it.

 

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan’s voice pulled him from his reverie and he gave a short nod.

 

Plastering a reassuring smile on his face, Aramis replied, “I’m certain they are well and will look out for one another, even though our red garbed friends may prove of little use.”

 

The Gascon nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and the Spaniard could tell that the troubles between them weighed just as heavily on the boy as they did on him. “How are things with you and Constance?”

 

d’Artagnan’s face lit up at the question, the love he held for the woman obvious to anyone who cared to look. “It is truly a dream come true,” he replied. His smile faded a bit as he added, “It would be perfect if things at the garrison were not so…” He trailed off searching for the right words and Aramis nodded, understanding without needing him to finish.

 

“So _tense_?” Aramis provided, watching d’Artagnan’s sad nod of agreement. Reaching with one hand to clasp the young’ man’s shoulder he said, “It is not unusual for families to experience strife. It is not pleasant but it’s by no means the end. As long as we are willing, there is nothing that cannot be overcome.”

 

He was treated to one of d’Artagnan’s shy smiles, the young man needing things to return to normal as badly as the rest of them. Giving the boy’s shoulder a quick squeeze before removing his hand, Aramis suggested, “Perhaps it’s time we hashed things out when we’re back in Paris.” The look of gratitude on the Gascon’s face spoke volumes and the Spaniard gave a short nod, confirming the plan of action upon their return. Motioning toward the food still held in the young man’s hands, he ordered, “Eat up. We have several more hours ahead of us and there’s no way to know if we’ll find some place this grand again where we can stop.”

 

d’Artagnan gave his friend an eye roll but did as he asked, taking a bite of the hard cheese and washing it down with a drink of water.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is important to stay awake, lest you succumb to the cold. The desire to sleep will be overwhelming, but it can make the difference between life and death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been continuing to read, comment and leave kudos. This chapter is missing two of our boys who will be back next time, and I hope you'll accept this longer installment in exchange for their absence.

They were three days into their journey and Porthos was relieved that the further they’d travelled from Paris, the warmer the air around them had become, the sun shining brightly and burning away the chill of early spring. It was a welcome change from the nights they’d spent camped out, largely exposed to the elements with nothing more than the trees and their cloaks to ward off the cold. The first night they’d been lucky and found a copse of trees large enough that they’d navigated their way inside, far enough from the road to be unseen, and had risked a small fire. The second night had been worse, the spot where they’d stopped offering little protection and certainly not secluded enough for a fire; that night had seen all of them suffering, praying for the night to pass quickly so they could be on their way once more. Today, Porthos was hoping they’d find some sort of shelter, not picky about the type, but hoping to avoid another night exposed to the cold.

 

Their route now took them along the Seine, and they’d already crossed over it twice before the river diverted north, only to return southwards again and flow parallel to the road they currently travelled. While the snow in this area was a distant memory, the Seine was still icy cold, a fact that Porthos had confirmed when he’d refilled his water skin from its muddy banks. He did his best to enjoy the beauty of the scenery around them, even as his eyes roamed almost constantly, seeking out any potential threats. He knew that beside him, Athos did the same, their vigilance exhausting but necessary since they placed little trust in the men accompanying them.

 

The Red Guards had demonstrated an apathy for their travelling companions that equalled the Musketeers’, keeping mostly to themselves and engaging in conversation only when absolutely necessary. The only positive was that they’d willingly deferred to Athos’ command, either having been ordered to follow the man’s lead or instinctively doing so after recognizing him as a natural leader. The anxiety-filled days left them perpetually on edge but also exhausted, neither man willing to fall deeply asleep when one of the Red Guards was on watch. Adding to the tension was the worry both carried for their absent brothers, wondering if their party had yet been attacked, and praying each moment that their ruse would bring the bandits to them instead.

 

It was not the first time that they’d been separated, and the three of them had all completed their fair share of solitary missions in the years before d’Artagnan had joined them; but, as their time with the regiment wore on, more often than not, the three had been deployed together, turning to four once the Gascon had been commissioned. Being apart from the men now was a paradox of relief and sorrow, Porthos grateful for the lack of stilted conversations but missing his brothers terribly. This time seemed worse somehow than in the past, the difficulties that had grown between them making their time apart feel inevitable, and Porthos feared this might be an ominous sign of things to come, giving him a taste of what missions would be like in the future if they continued on the same path.

 

Porthos knew that Aramis had been struggling in recent months and had gone to him, his intention to listen and support his friend as he had in the past. The Spaniard’s reaction to his continued offers of help had been hurtful, moving from pleasantly rebuffing his attempts to outright anger at his ongoing pestering and interference. Porthos had been shocked, his friend’s actions oddly reminiscent of the days following Savoy, but this time the man had no excuse for his poor behaviour and the large man had eventually pulled away, wondering if their friendship had run its course.

 

He watched as things deteriorated between Athos and Aramis as well, having no knowledge of what caused the strife between the two, with neither man willing to explain. Soon after, d’Artagnan’s anger with Athos became known and the older man would have withdrawn from them completely if it hadn’t been for Porthos’ persistent efforts to engage him during their time together. It was strange, he reflected, that the roles in their group seemed to have somehow reversed, the ties which had been strongest had also been tested the most, and Porthos was certain they would break soon if things didn’t change.

 

His gaze landed on Athos’ face for a moment, the man’s expression largely unchanged but his eyes portraying a deep sorrow. Not once had the man shared his burdens with the others, simply turning to drink in his desperate need to escape his demons which pursued him with dogged determination since his wife had returned to Paris. Porthos had tried to help his friend find his way through the darkness but he, too, was suffering, thoughts consumed by the knowledge of a father who existed just beyond his reach, Treville unwilling to share any of what he knew.

 

Aramis had offered some token assistance but it quickly became clear that he was uninterested in helping Porthos find news of his family, soon counselling the large Musketeer to simply let things be rather than stirring up the past. Porthos had been dumbfounded by his friend’s response and had turned and walked away, too afraid that he would lash out at the man in his anger and hurt. The rift that had appeared between them earlier grew alarmingly from this point, and he was sad about how difficult it had now become to be among his brothers.

 

Pulling himself from his melancholy thoughts, Porthos gave himself a mental shake, refocusing on their surroundings and forcing himself to pay attention. The air around them was clean and crisp, a welcome change from the cloying smells of the Parisian streets, which he’d never really minded but wasn’t sad to be away from for a while. The sun made everything around them bright, giving the impression that the day was warmer than it actually was. There were trees on one side and the road ahead was clear, their surroundings quiet and serene, bringing him a sense of peace that he hadn’t felt in days. Porthos silently chastised himself for expecting danger around every corner, consciously relaxing the stiffness in his back and shoulders, rolling his neck to ease the tension that was taking up residence there. In hindsight, he would reflect on this moment and realize he should have paid more attention to his instincts.

 

The attack came from the copse of trees, hiding the men until they wanted to be seen, the sound of shots being fired disturbing the stillness around them. Porthos could hear the screech of birds immediately afterwards and his eyes were momentarily distracted as he watched a murder of crows take flight on his left. Sparing a quick glance to his right he saw Athos pulling his pistol and a look behind him revealed the Red Guards doing the same, although their faces telegraphed their fear and gave Porthos little confidence that they could rely upon these men to stand their ground and fight. Athos’ voice cut through the momentary din and confusion, ordering them to fire back even as they dug their heels into their horses’ flanks, spurring the animals to speed up and carry them away from the danger they faced.

 

Porthos held his shot, deciding to save it until their attackers were closer, knowing he would not have time to reload once the skirmish began. As far as he could tell, Athos’ plan was to draw the men from the trees, removing their advantage of firing from a place of cover and giving their group the chance to see what kind of force they were up against. The strategy worked and seconds later he could hear the sound of hoof beats behind them. A look back revealed ten men following them, most holding onto their reins with both hands, while a few drew their pistols and fired. Porthos instinctively ducked lower, his chest brushing his horse’s neck, as the balls from the discharged weapons flew by.

 

The area in front of them was narrowing and he knew that this is where Athos would have them halt, wanting to take advantage of the natural chokepoint in an effort to slow the attack. As he’d predicted, the older Musketeer pulled up hard as soon as they entered the narrowed section. Porthos quickly followed suit, stopping a few feet past Athos and watched as the three guards arrived; for a moment, it seemed as though they might not stop, but then their horses slowed and even though they now stood several feet behind the Musketeers, they had at least halted.

 

With a hard stare, Athos ordered them, “Prepare to shoot as soon as they’re within range. Once your pistols are spent, pull them off their horses and meet them on the ground.”

 

The three gave nervous nods but did as they’d been told, making Porthos shake his head, muttering lowly under his breath, “Bloody waste of skin, they are.”

 

Athos caught his words and threw his friend a rare grin, both knowing that each battle could be their last and relishing the adrenaline that now coursed through their veins in anticipation. Seconds later, the riders had arrived and the men took their shots. Athos and Porthos both brought down a man each and one of the other guards also managed a hit. As soon as they’d fired, both Musketeers moved forward, Porthos striking out a man with the butt of his pistol, the rider falling to the ground unconscious. Immediately, he turned his attention to another, mindful of the fact that they were still outnumbered by the bandits who’d attacked.

 

While Porthos endeavoured to knock another man from his horse, Athos set his sights on his own target, managing to push the man off his horse before dismounting himself. From the corner of his eye, he could see Porthos successfully fell another man and then his focus was on his adversary, the two men facing each other with swords drawn. He was vaguely aware of the sound of other blades clashing, but kept his own attention on the man in front of him, stretching his other senses out only as far as to maintain an awareness of his immediate surroundings so that no one could sneak up on him. As the two men engaged, Athos was surprised to find the man a more than adequate swordsman who would not be as easily despatched as he’d first hoped.

 

Several feet away, Porthos was discovering the same as he crossed blades with his own opponent, using his larger size and strength against the man as he relentlessly pushed him back. With so many men still remaining, he ended the fight as quickly as he could, bringing the pommel of his sword down against the man’s temple and dropping him to the ground. Sparing a quick look around, he could see two of the Red Guards still fighting and Athos had gained a second challenger, leaving two more still for him; not great odds but they’d certainly faced worst in the past and prevailed. Pulling his main gauche, the large Musketeer threw the dagger at one of the two bandits, meeting the other with his sword as the first man was falling dead to the ground.

 

Athos was holding his own against his opponents and a forward thrust had one of the men dropping as the Musketeer pulled the blade from his chest, parrying the second man’s attack with his dagger. As soon as his sword was free, Athos pivoted, flicking his sword to disarm the man before stepping in close and driving his main gauche into the man’s stomach, pushing sharply upward as he gutted the man. He’d barely pulled his dagger free and stepped back before he heard a hoarse shout, “Athos!” He recognized Porthos’ voice but had no chance to find the danger that infused his friends’ shout with such fear.

 

A great force knocked him off his feet and he was aware that he was moving, his body rolling with the hit he’d taken before being engulfed in icy cold. The sudden shock stole the breath from his lungs and his found himself exhaling loudly before his head was covered. Immediately, his body fought for air, and instinctively he inhaled, finding nothing but water flooding his lungs, the coldness of it sending tendrils of fire through his chest. Dazed, he realized his situation and clawed to the surface, his head breaking free of the water that held him, coughing as his body demanded oxygen.

 

The leathers he wore dragged him under, and he managed a mere few seconds above the water’s surface before his head was covered once more. Again, he struggled ineffectually against the weight of his clothing, desperate to take a breath and ease the pain of his seizing lungs. With a push that nearly sapped his remaining strength, he managed to heave himself partway out of the water, the river’s flow pushing him mercilessly along, further away from his friend.

 

He coughed painfully and managed a couple of quick inhales before his flagging energy deserted him and he felt himself sinking again. As the water closed over his head, he realized that he would be denied the typical soldier’s death, not struck down by sword or musket, but instead by the relentless water of the frigid Seine. Unable to hold his breath any longer, his mouth opened, expelling the precious little amount of oxygen he’d managed to inhale, allowing the icy water to rush in and take its place. 

* * *

Porthos’ heart had constricted painfully with fear for his friend when he saw the bandit rushing at Athos, the older man clearly unaware of the danger he was in. His shout had been too late and the two men had tumbled down the steep bank, rolling down to the river below, a loud splash following immediately after. As he raced to his horse, Porthos could hear Aramis’ voice in his head, _“If submerged in icy waters, the body loses strength almost immediately, making it nearly impossible to save oneself after the first few seconds. If a man is fortunate enough not to drown right away, the cold with claim his life within minutes if not rescued and properly warmed.”_

 

Pulling himself into the saddle, he spurred his horse toward the riverbank, confirming his worst fear – Athos was nowhere in sight. He refused to believe that the man had already succumbed and pushed the animal into a canter instead, following the path of the river, eyes scanning the waters continuously for any sign of the man. Seconds later a head broke the surface and Porthos had a quick view of his friend, coughing and gasping for air. Even from where he sat atop his horse, the large man could see the battle that Athos was waging against his waterlogged clothing and the movement of the rough waters. Athos managed to stay above water for only a few seconds and Porthos made his decision immediately, kicking the horse into a gallop so he could get ahead of the drowning man.

 

Hoping he’d ridden far enough, Porthos pulled the horse to a stop, dismounting even while the animal was still slowing and throwing himself into a run toward the edge of the water. As he ran, his fingers tore at his belt and doublet, cursing his fingers that seemed to take forever to undo the fastenings, and ripping the garment from his back as soon as it was free, letting it fall to the ground to join his weapons. He took a moment to pull off his boots, his eyes catching another glimpse of the drowning man, calculating that he’d managed to stop far enough ahead of his friend in order to swim out before he passed by.

 

As his second boot came free, Porthos threw himself forward, wading into the water and immediately gasping at the cold. _“When first immersed, there’s a strong likelihood that a man will exhale at the shock of the icy waters, losing any air that may have been in his lungs and forcing him to inhale. If submerged, drowning is almost certain.”_ Aramis’ words had been meant to keep his brothers safe, but Porthos found that they only accentuated the fear he held for his friend, wondering if the man had already inhaled water in his bid for oxygen.

 

Forcing himself forward on feet and legs that were swiftly turning numb, Porthos watched as Athos sank again beneath the water and, with a guttural roar, dove forward, his strokes panicked and uncoordinated but bringing him unerringly to where he thought Athos might next reappear. Seconds passed as Porthos relentlessly moved toward the centre of the river and there was still no sign of the older man. He stopped in place for a moment, confident that he should have found his friend by now, and turned in place, eyes continuously scanning his surroundings.

 

_There!_ He had only moments to prepare before Athos was literally swept against him, floating face down and completely boneless. Porthos’ quick reactions had him gripping his friend’s body before it could be swept away by the current, and he pulled Athos’ face out of the water and managed to get the man’s head resting against one shoulder. As his strength rapidly waned, he forced his leaden limbs to move in an ungainly stroke, significantly hampered by Athos’ deadweight. Slowly but steadily he made progress toward the riverbank, though he could see that the water was continuing to push them further away from where he’d left his clothes and horse.

 

He was finally within a few feet of the bank and decided to test the depth of the river, allowing his feet to drop and slipping beneath the water when he couldn’t touch the bottom. Pushing back up took almost all of his remaining energy, and he spluttered helplessly for a moment at the unexpected dunking, checking that Athos’ face was also out of the water as the river pushed at their bodies. Before Porthos was able to begin swimming once more, he was caught in an errant eddy and they were tossed to one side, the large man grinning in momentary relief as he realized they’d been moved closer to his goal before gasping in pain as his arm collided with a hard and unyielding surface. The shock caused him to release his grip and Athos once more dropped away from him. Porthos sucked in a breath before allowing himself to submerge, using his other arm to grasp the collar of his friend’s doublet and hauling him above the surface of the water.

 

He knew he was nearly spent and, in another minute, would be unable to save either one of them. Pushing his aching arm to move, he managed to swim another couple of feet, sending up a prayer of thanks when the rocky bottom of the river appeared beneath him, allowing him to stand. The next seconds were lost to him as he struggled to carry Athos out of the water, moving far enough away from the edge until they sat on dry land. Athos slipped from his weakened grip and he said a silent apology to his friend at the rough treatment, hoping that the man was still alive so he might complain about it later.

 

Dropping next to Athos, Porthos leaned over to listen for a heartbeat, his fingers too cold to accomplish the task. He nearly sobbed in relief when he heard it and moved next to place his cheek in front of Athos’ face, waiting expectantly for the brush of warm air that would signify the older man’s life. Long seconds passed and still Porthos felt nothing, his earlier relief disappearing as quickly as it had come.

 

“No!” Porthos roared, awkwardly rolling the man on his side, his good arm striking against Athos’ back in an effort to empty his lungs from the water he’d swallowed. He struck once, twice, and then a third time as he pleaded with the man to breathe. “Come on, Athos. Breathe, damn you. You’re the most stubborn man I know and I can’t believe you’d let a river best you. Come on, breathe!” A final hard clap to the man’s back had him vomiting water and gasping for air, his body racked by harsh convulsions and wheezing breaths as he struggled to empty his lungs and refill them with air. “Thank God,” Porthos dropped his head onto his friend’s arm, continuing to brace him where he lay on his side so he didn’t choke.

 

As Athos’ expelled the fluid from his chest, he body was rapidly seized by strong trembling and Porthos realized how badly his own body was shivering in reaction to the cold swim they’d both endured. Lifting his head, he looked around, guessing that they’d been pushed several hundred metres away from where he’d initially stopped, and even further away from where they’d been attacked. Doubtful that he could rely on any aid from the Red Guards, and not even certain of their survival, Porthos could see only one option – leave Athos while he went to retrieve his things. It was a terrifying option, but they desperately needed the supplies contained in his saddlebags, regardless of the fact that they were now down to one horse and would be reliant upon it to reach any sort of aid.

 

Porthos leaned forward once more to confirm that Athos was still breathing and drew in a deep inhale of his own as he prepared to do what he had to in order to ensure their survival. “Athos,” he called, hoping that the man might awake. A gentle shake brought no more awareness than his voice had, and Porthos resigned himself to his task. Leaving the older man positioned on his side, he wearily pushed himself to his feet, shocked at how cold and weak he felt and swaying slightly before he regained his balance. His hand moved to brace his throbbing arm and he thought idly that he would need to check it at some point to see how badly he’d been hurt. He managed a stumbling gait, he steps unsteady but consistent, moving him back to where he’d left his things.

 

The sight of the horse standing ahead of him brought a sliver of hope, and he patted the animal’s neck as he passed it, continuing on to retrieve his weapons, doublet and boots. Looking down at himself, he was loathe to dress when everything he currently wore was soaked through. With a soft sigh, he slipped his feet into his boots and gathered the other items in his hand, deciding he needed to get warm and dry before donning his doublet.

 

It took several more minutes to return to the horse and lift himself upwards, his injured arm nearly useless and complaining with every movement he made. He nudged the animal into a walk, chafing at the slow speed but confident that anything faster was currently beyond his abilities, promising a nasty fall that he would be unable to prevent. He guided the horse back to where he’d left Athos and felt his chest ease minutely at seeing the man exactly where he’d been left. After an ungainly dismount that had him cursing at the ache in his arm, Porthos was again dropping to the ground at his friend’s side, confirming that the man still lived.

 

He knew that their first priority was to warm up, requiring them to get out of their wet clothes and find a source of heat; although it would be risky so soon after being attacked, Porthos would have no choice but to light a fire. The area around them was inhospitable and too close to the river that had nearly claimed their lives. They would have to move further away and Porthos steeled himself for what he knew would be an incredibly difficult and painful task. Porthos stood and, with his good hand, he pulled Athos’ torso upright, still doubting his ability to do what needed to be done. With a grunt, he heaved at his friend’s deadweight, attempting to lift the man up enough to get him on his shoulder but the undertaking proved to be beyond his current abilities.   

 

With a shaky exhale, Porthos adjusted his grip, cursing his weakened condition and the men who’d attacked and placed them in this precarious position. With a tug, he began to drag Athos backwards, step by step moving them away from the river and toward a thin copse of trees and bushes, the only viable shelter within sight. By the time he’d made it to there, Porthos muscles were trembling with exertion and he recognized that it would not be much longer before he’d be collapsing next to Athos; unfortunately, there was still work to be done so he pushed aside his discomfort and drove himself to move.

 

First, he returned to where he’d left his horse, bringing it into the trees with them so it didn’t run off and so he could easily access the supplies in his saddlebags. Second, he pulled out every piece of clothing along with his bedroll, settling down on his knees next to the still unresponsive man. As he tugged and pulled, struggling to remove Athos’ doublet and shirt, he kept up a steady stream of conversation, hoping the man might respond to his words. “You know,” he stammered, teeth clacking as he shook with cold, “it would be a lot easier if you were awake to help me.” Both items were dropped to one side once they’d been successfully removed, Porthos rubbing Athos’ arms and chest with an extra shirt to dry him. Next, he wrapped the man into the blanket, keeping it around his torso to avoid the still sopping wet breeches.

 

Having taken initial steps to prevent Athos’ body from cooling any further, he turned his attention to starting a fire, stumbling gracelessly around the copse as he gathered enough wood to keep a fire burning for a couple hours. Arranging the kindling, he pulled out his flint, needing several tries before his uncoordinated fingers managed the task, his hands still numb with cold and hampered by his almost useless injured arm. As the first small twigs caught fire, he carefully stoked it, adding progressively larger pieces until he was confident it would not extinguish itself. Pulling Athos’ body as close to the fire as he dared, he completed the process of undressing the man, removing the sodden boots, breeches and braies and laying everything out on the ground around them so they could dry.

 

When he’d finished, he slumped on the ground next his friend, his adrenaline dissipating as the urgency of earlier eased and he found his eyes closing of their own volition. He startled himself back to awareness, realizing he’d almost fallen asleep while still in his wet clothes. The thought of undressing himself, and especially moving his sore arm had him gritting his teeth in disdain but there was little choice. The temperature was relatively mild for early spring, which was still far too cold in his current condition and some part of his mind noted the fact that his shivering seemed to be subsiding. _“The body must be stripped of everything wet and warmed as quickly as possible. Skin to skin contact is one of the most effective ways of generating heat, despite the instinct to bundle oneself in dry clothing.”_

 

Groaning, he forced himself into a more upright position so he could get his shirt off, the material heavy with moisture and sticking to his skin, making it challenging to discard. Pulling the sleeve free from his injured arm was pure agony and he swallowed thickly when the limb was revealed, a lump between his wrist and elbow indicating where the bone had broken. He turned his gaze away quickly, closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing as he pushed back the pain. With his good hand, he tugged at his belt, finally managing to remove it from his waist and he buckled it before looping it over his shoulder, setting the arm gingerly into it so it might have some support. Staggering to his feet made his head swim dangerously and he pushed his breeches and braies down, collapsing once more to the ground as soon as he’d divested himself of the wet items.

 

With the last of his strength, he added to their fire and crawled to where Athos lay. A few moments of prodding and pulling had him lying on the bedroll next to his friend, their bodies touching as much as he could manage, both of them covered by Porthos’ cloak and doublet. _“It is important to stay awake, lest you succumb to the cold. The desire to sleep will be overwhelming, but it can make the difference between life and death.”_  He could feel himself losing the battle against the weight of his eyelids, inexorably closing despite his best efforts to stay awake. His last thoughts were of Aramis’ warnings and he mumbled before falling asleep, “Sorry, Aramis, tried my best.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis kept a hand pressed against his side as they moved, the killing ground behind them soon lost to sight as the rain and haze swallowed the bodies of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After giving Porthos and Athos their own chapter last time, d'Artagnan and Aramis insisted they have the same opportunity, so... Hope you enjoy!

It was their third day of travel and all of them were weary from the long hours they’d spent in the saddle, and the shivering that was their almost constant companion as they continued to battle the elements, the days having been marked by gray skies and rain. The only consolation had been the fact that they’d been fortunate to find shelter each night, affording the men an opportunity to dry out their clothes and warm their bodies, before clambering back into damp garments each morning, being thoroughly soaked through within minutes of departing.

 

Their moods had deteriorated accordingly, the men speaking with each other less and less as tempers flared and patience all but vanished. On their second day, Aramis had needed to step in to stop an argument between one of the Red Guards and d’Artagnan, the former having made disparaging comments about the Gascon’s heritage, bringing the young man’s passion to the fore and swords had nearly been drawn. For several moments, as Aramis had stood between the two, he wondered if the other guards would step in and intervene, stacking the odds against them and preventing a peaceful resolution. Fortunately, they’d watched and waited and the Spaniard had been able to pull his friend away, leaving the Red Guard to snickering with his friends, while he quietly reasoned with d’Artagnan in one corner of the dilapidated barn where they’d stopped for the night.

 

From that moment, Aramis placed himself between the Gascon and the others, taking the lead in any conversations between the two groups and physically keeping them apart, lest the taunting begin anew. For his part, he was exhausted from maintaining an almost hyper vigilant state, neither Musketeer having faith enough in their companions to ever fully let down their guard, and continuously waiting for the expected attack which had befallen those who had attempted the mission before them. He knew that d’Artagnan felt the same and wished he could find the energy to assuage his fears, but the long days and nearly sleepless nights had sapped both his strength and enthusiasm, making him uncharacteristically sombre and quiet.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan called, seeing his friend deeply in thought, an occurrence that was becoming more and more common the longer they rode. The Spaniard startled from his reverie, looking to his left where the Gascon rode beside him, the Red Guards once more at their rear. “What troubles you, my friend? I cannot recall a time when I’ve seen you so pensive.” d’Artagnan softened his question with a smile, but the underlying concern still shone through.

 

Aramis dredged up a smile of his own as he replied, “It’s this weather and this mission; leaves a man far too much time for introspection.” He lowered his voice a little as he said, “Although I can’t say the company does much to elevate the mood, either.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned at his friend’s words, pleased that the man still had it in him to joke. “How much further to Le Havre do you think?”

 

Aramis calculated their route, envisioning in his mind the map he’d studied before they’d left. “Two days,” he answered, with a hint of a questioning tone, seeking d’Artagnan’s agreement which he received moments later as the Gascon nodded in return.

 

“Do you think Athos and Porthos will beat us there?” d’Artagnan asked, a hint of longing in his voice as he asked about their absent friends.

 

“I would expect so. They took the shorter route, which probably means that Athos will have drunk one of the taverns dry while Porthos will have fleeced the local populace of their coin, playing cards.” d’Artagnan’s face fell at Aramis’ comment, the Spaniard wincing to himself at his gaff. “Ignore that,” he corrected, a rueful grin on his face. “I’m certain their focus will remain on the mission for as long as we’re apart.”

 

d’Artagnan offered a nod in reply, but it was obvious his thoughts were now occupied by Athos and his drinking, and Aramis berated himself at the inadvertent slip, meant to be humorous but which had clearly aggravated a sore spot. They fell silent again, everything around them eerily still save for the hypnotic sound of rain falling around them, broken by the sound of their horses’ hooves and the occasional snort. Aramis hunched his shoulders as he tried to duck deeper into his cloak, sighing tiredly at the monotony of the gray landscape around them.

 

The continuous rains not only kept them perpetually damp and cold, but cut the view of their surroundings considerably, draping a gauzy haze over everything and obscuring anything that was more than 50 metres away. Aramis squinted against the rain as his eyes spotted motion ahead of them, uncertain at first whether he actually saw something or whether it was simply a trick of the light. Seconds later the images solidified and he was able to make out several men on horseback, thundering toward them at a full gallop. The attack was insane, the road beneath them rutted and muddy, making it treacherous to travel at such a speed, but the approaching men seemed to have no intentions of slowing down.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Aramis hissed, pointing ahead of them and the Gascon gave a sharp nod in return, one hand swiping first at his face to push sodden locks out of his eyes before reaching for his pistol. Aramis twisted in his seat, whistling lowly to the men behind them, “Riders approaching; get ready.” Satisfied that the men had reached for their pistols, Aramis pulled his harquebus, removing the oilskin he’d placed over it and priming the weapon to fire. They kept their pace even, not willing to risk a misstep by any of their horses and knowing that their aim would be far better if they weren’t being jostled by their horses’ wild gaits.

 

The Gascon could see the tense set of his friend’s shoulders and could feel his own adrenaline quickening his heart, strength flowing into his muscles in anticipation of the coming encounter. As the riders approached, d’Artagnan wondered if Aramis would hold his shot until they were engaged but seconds later the man beside him fired and one of the riders fell, the sharpshooter’s aim as true as always. He had a moment of doubt, wondering if these men had really meant them harm, but then a returning shot sounded and d’Artagnan’s doubts disappeared, drawing his own pistol and taking aim. Behind him, he could hear the Red Guards moving forward to draw abreast of them before they, too, would take their shots.

 

d’Artagnan pulled the trigger of his pistol, rewarded only with a loud click as it refused to fire and he realized belatedly that the gun powder must be too wet to ignite. With a low growl of frustration, he nudged his horse into a canter, not having the luxury anymore of taking his time and needing to reach the man closest to him before the bandit had a chance to fire on him instead.

 

Aramis was momentarily startled as d’Artagnan broke formation to charge at one of the riders, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it, drawing his pistol and taking aim at another man before holstering the weapon and following in the Gascon’s wake. The young man had clubbed his target across the head with the butt of his pistol, dropping the man from his horse. Aramis was vaguely aware of shots behind him, recognizing them as belonging to the Red Guards, and then he was engaged with one of the men, bringing the hilt of his sword against the bandit’s temple and knocking him from his horse.

 

He wasted no time enjoying the minor victory, continuing forward, slashing at another man only to have the blow blocked as the man raised his own sword in reply, their two blades locking for a moment as the bandit sneered at the Musketeer, displaying yellowed and crooked teeth. Aramis pushed the man back, freeing his sword and moving his horse several steps away before returning to swing his blade again, landing a hit against the man’s shoulder, unseating him. Aramis threw a leg over his horse’s neck, following the man to the ground, standing over him for a moment before plunging his blade into the bandit’s chest. Heaving a breath, he scanned their surroundings, noting that the Red Guards were still standing and occupied with their own fights while d’Artagnan was still on his horse, successfully besting another man.

 

d’Artagnan turned his horse, meeting Aramis’ gaze with a triumphant grin on his face, the flush of battle etched in his features as his blood sang. The Spaniard began to return the grin, giving his head a small shake at the look of pure enjoyment that painted the Gascon’s face when he caught a flash of motion in his peripheral vision. Even as he turned to assess the new threat, he could see that the approaching horse and rider would collide with the young man who was oblivious to the imminent danger. He threw himself into a run, charging forward across the muddied grass, cursing as the ground caused him to slip with each skidding step. “d’Artagnan!”

 

The Gascon’s face changed to confusion at Aramis’ first steps toward him and his head began to turn in the direction that the Spaniard had been looking moments before, but it was too late. When the impact came, the hit jarred him, his head moving in one direction even as his body flew sideways off the horse. The collision with the ground knocked the breath from his chest and didn’t even leave him with enough air to cry out, despite the shock of pain that lanced through his shoulder.

 

His chest constricted immediately as his body demanded oxygen, and he managed a single gasp before he felt a crushing weight on top of him, the bandit who’d tackled him off his horse finishing the move and following him down to the ground only to land on top of him. The second hit was too much for his overtaxed pain receptors and his vision tunneled, chest heaving wildly as he struggled for air. His mind screamed at him to move, a part of him aware that he was in peril, but his body refused to respond to any of his brain’s commands.

 

Aramis watched helplessly as his friend was knocked from his horse, landing badly on his side before his attacker landed on top of him. He knew the force of the blow had to be a painful one and doubted that the Gascon would simply get up and walk away from it. The bandit rolled off d’Artagnan and stood, pulling his sword as he stared down at the gasping Musketeer. The man rested the tip of his sword on d’Artagnan’s chest, the young man unaware of the immediacy of the threat to his life as he struggled to catch his breath, eyes half-lidded and unfocused while he struggled with the pain in his left shoulder.

 

It seemed to Aramis that he was running in slow motion, the distance between himself and his friend taking forever to close, and his heart clenched uncomfortably when he saw the bandit’s blade rest on the boy’s chest. With a roar that would have made Porthos proud, Aramis finally reached them, swiping his sword downwards to knock the bandit’s blade from d’Artagnan’s chest. The bandit looked surprised but not overly concerned as he reacted quickly and brought his sword up to meet the Musketeer’s attack. Hit by hit, Aramis moved them away from where the Gascon still lay and he knew that d’Artagnan would not be able to defend himself any time soon.

 

The two men traded blows, Aramis surprised to find that his opponent was as good a swordsman as he was, suggesting some type of formal training in the man’s past. A feint had Aramis bringing his blade downwards to protect his right side, only for the bandit to shift his weight and strike to his left, the Spaniard hissing lowly as he felt the blade score across his ribs. Reaching behind, he pulled his main gauche, determined to end things quickly so he could check on d’Artagnan. A flick of his wrist had the dagger flying from his hand to land in the man’s chest, bringing forth a look of shock as the man realized he’d been defeated.  

 

Aramis stepped forward quickly to pull the knife free, kicking away the sword from the man’s hand as he left him to die. A quick glance showed him to be the last man standing, the others having either been wounded or killed, or perhaps ridden away. At this point Aramis didn’t much care since it changed nothing about their current circumstances; d’Artagnan still lay on the ground and needed help, and that would not change regardless of who else was around.

 

Moving to the Gascon’s side, he dropped to his knees, wincing slightly as the action pulled at his side. Reaching a hand forward, he placed it on d’Artagnan’s cheek, tapping gently. “d’Artagnan, open your eyes for me.” His tone was hard, his need to see the boy’s eyes open overwhelming and he knew that an order was most likely to produce the desired result.

 

d’Artagnan groaned, his head rolling slightly to move away from Aramis’ hand as his eyelids fluttered and opened partway. “’Mis?” he squinted up at his friend.

 

Aramis dropped his head for a moment with relief, shifting his hand away from the young man’s cheek to rest gently on his chest instead. “Where does it hurt, d’Artagnan?” He would have liked to allow the boy more time to regain his senses, but their position was precarious, exposed out in the open and with no knowledge of whether they’d be attacked again.

 

d’Artagnan considered the question for a moment before answering, his face screwed up in pain, “Left shoulder.”

 

Aramis was unsurprised, knowing that the young man had landed on his left side when he’d been unseated and he moved his hand to the boy’s shoulder, feeling at once the oddly misshapen lump that sat in place of the joint. He peered down at the Gascon’s face in sympathy, noting the young man’s quickened breaths at the spike of agony his touch had ignited. “It’s dislocated,” he said, certain that d’Artagnan likely already suspected the same.

 

“Thought so,” the Gascon said on an exhale, voice reedy and breathless with pain. “You gonna put it back?” he asked, forcing himself to open his eyes enough to see his friend.

 

Aramis gave a short nod, well aware of the pain he would soon be inflicting. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“Ribs are sore, but not enough to be broken,” d’Artagnan answered, well aware that he could not hide injuries while they were in such a perilous situation. Aramis’ hand twitched and the Gascon knew he planned to check his side, but recognized as well as his friend that there was no time. Lifting his right hand, he caught Aramis’, “Now’s not the time and you know it. Put my shoulder back and I promise I’ll let you check once we’re safe.”

 

Aramis’ face clearly showed the conflicting emotions he felt, but he nodded and positioned his hands on d’Artagnan’s left arm, grasping his hand and cradling the elbow as he began to manipulate the limb back into position. Each shift had the boy gasping in pain and Aramis tuned him out, knowing that it was necessary and would feel better once the arm had been relocated. He pushed, waiting for the telltale lack of resistance that indicated the shoulder was back in place, exhaling deeply as he finally felt it slip into the joint.

 

d’Artagnan let out a low sob, breaths sawing in and out as he fought to overcome the sharp pain, which was even now beginning to settle into a deep ache. He forced his eyes open, focusing on the medic, a shaky smile gracing his lips. “Thanks,” he said, grateful of the relief the medic’s actions had provided. “Help me up.”

 

Aramis gripped his right hand, placing his other behind the Gascon’s back as he slowly guided him to a sitting position, pausing there while the young man adjusted to being upright. When d’Artagnan gave a minor tilt of his head, Aramis pulled his hands away, waiting another moment to confirm the Gascon was steady enough to stay up on his own. Unbuckling his belt, he moved next to remove his sash, using it to bind his friend’s arm to his chest, d’Artagnan bearing the process stoically as he bit his lip against any sounds of pain. He sat back on his haunches when he’d finished, carefully examining the Gascon, “Better?”

 

“Yes, much,” d’Artagnan sighed. He held his uninjured arm out to the medic again and was pulled to his feet, swaying a moment before steadying. Aramis’ eyes were scanning the area around them for their horses but the Gascon’s were pinned on the medic’s side, not having missed the look of pain that had crossed the other man’s face when he’d taken the young man’s weight. “You’re hurt,” he stated matter- of-factly, pulling Aramis’ attention back to him.

 

Aramis grimaced as his gaze darted down to his side, his right hand moving under his cloak to cover the slice in his doublet. “How bad?” d’Artagnan asked, scrutinizing his friend for any signs of deception.

 

“It can wait,” the medic replied, already beginning to turn away. He was stopped by d’Artagnan’s hand on his arm.

 

“Aramis, one of the first things the three of you taught me was to be honest about injuries. How bad?” he asked, emphasizing his repeated question.

 

Aramis dipped his eyes for a moment before meeting the other man’s gaze. “I don’t know. I haven’t had time to look and,” his face took on a warning look, “there’s no time right now. We need to get away from here and to somewhere more defensible.”

 

d’Artagnan was clearly torn, his desire to check his friend’s wound warring with the truth of the man’s words, but he eventually gave a short nod. “We stop as soon as it’s safe.”

 

Aramis gave a small smile of thanks, grateful that he would not need to argue with the boy in order to convince him of the need to get away. They took a few minutes to walk among the bodies, locating the Red Guards and counting nine others among the dead; given the odds, they had been fortunate. Their horses had luckily stayed close and after a few tense moments when d’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he’d be able to mount, they were both seated and riding away. Aramis kept a hand pressed against his side as they moved, the killing ground behind them soon lost to sight as the rain and haze swallowed the bodies of the dead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only person with whom Athos was still on somewhat good terms was Porthos, and even he had been distant, consumed by his own concerns and need to find his father. Athos was no stranger to regret, but these most recent troubles seemed representative of a larger failing on his part, a betrayal of sorts that he hadn’t experienced since hanging his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter. Porthos and Athos steal the limelight in this chapter and we'll see all of the boys in the next one. Hope you enjoy!

The nagging ache in his arm brought him back to awareness, his return to consciousness extremely unpleasant as he forced slower breaths from his chest in an effort to overcome the pain. Images drifted into his mind, his brain still hazy and slow as if mired in thick syrup. He remembered men attacking them, jumping onto his horse, swift moving, dark water, and the all-encompassing cold. The thought brought a frown to his face as he struggled to recall why he’d been so cold, his body shivering uncomfortably even now. Athos! The memory assaulted him and he grunted as he involuntarily tried to rise, the weakness in his limbs defeating him before he’d done more than raise his head and shoulders off the hard ground.

 

Breathing once more through the fiery throb in his arm, he pushed himself to slow down, rolling his head to the side rather than attempting to move his whole body, coming face to face with Athos’ pale features. The older Musketeer had fallen into the Seine and Porthos again recalled the thrum of fear that had given him the necessary strength to follow and eventually pull his friend from the water’s icy grip. Gathering his energy, Porthos lifted his uninjured arm upwards, placing his hand in front of his friend’s face, gratified when he felt the warm puffs of air signalling that Athos still lived. His hand moved next to touch Athos’ face and chest, the coolness of his skin confirming that he was still incredibly cold and would need continued care to recover.

 

Porthos rolled slightly onto his uninjured side, bracing himself as he pushed off the ground, accomplishing a state that could be deemed more upright than not. His eyes drifted across Athos’ body to the fire he’d built and his frowned in dismay at the few embers that remained. Struggling up to his knees, Porthos swayed for a moment, holding onto his broken arm with his other hand before finally pushing to his feet so he could stumble around his friend’s body and stoke the fire. Fortunately it greedily devoured the wood that Porthos fed it, throwing off incredibly welcome heat and he sighed in relief.

 

He considered standing again so he could check on their horse and clothes but his body was heavy with fatigue and a part of his brain informed him that this was related to his own unfortunate dunking. Resigned, he crawled forward on his knees, relieved to find their wet clothes closer to damp than soaking and he carefully flipped each piece of clothing over so they could continue to dry. When he’d finished, he returned to Athos’ side, sliding in beside him and dragging the water skin with him so he could slake his thirst. After drinking several large swallows, he placed a hand on Athos’ cheek, calling to the man to see if he would wake but to no avail. A part of Porthos knew that this was to be expected and as long as his friend continued to breathe and grow warmer, there was not yet cause for alarm.

 

Gratefully, Porthos half-collapsed next to the man, ensuring they were as close as possible with their bodies sharing their meagre warmth. His eyes drifted upwards and he idly noted the location of the sun, calculating that he’d slept only a couple hours and the thought pulled a small snort of laughter from his chest. _Only a couple hours_ ; it was still far too long considering their tenuous position and current condition. Night was still several hours away and it would be critical to gather more firewood before then as well as getting them both into their clothes. Although spring was fast approaching, the nighttime temperatures fell considerably and they would have difficulty maintaining any warmth out in the open, no matter how brightly their fire burned.

 

Of course, all of these things would be far simpler to accomplish if Athos would only wake and confirm that he was well; until that happened, Porthos would continue to fuss and worry over the man and they would be unable to resume their journey to Le Havre, leaving them vulnerable to future attacks. He settled down, pulling the bedroll and cloaks tightly around both of them and then shifting his good hand to Athos’ arm, clasping his fingers around the man’s wrist, comforted by the consistent beat he felt there. He lay like this for quite some time, vaguely aware of the passage of time, a part of his brain attuned to their surroundings while another part focused on staying awake.

 

In the end, he was unable to maintain his vigilance, succumbing to sleep once more, the earlier toll on his body demanding rest. This time, it was movement beside him that brought awareness, Athos’ head beginning to toss restlessly where it lay next to Porthos’ own, his breaths sawing in and out of his chest with a low wheeze. The somewhat laboured breathing concerned him, but Athos’ gentle movements were the first real indication the man had given that he might wake and Porthos’ heart jumped at the possibility. Rolling toward the older man, Porthos propped himself carefully partway on the shoulder of his injured arm, leaving his other hand free to place on Athos’ chest. “Athos, open your eyes for me.” He watched as his friend struggled to do as he’d asked, tugging at heavy lids in an effort to lift them. “Come on, Athos, I need to know you’re alright.”

 

Porthos was aware of the pleading quality in his tone but could not bring himself to feel bad about it. Their situation was grave and he desperately needed to have his friend awake. As if sensing Porthos’ anxiety, Athos accomplished the difficult task of opening his eyes, blinking slowly without focusing until the larger man moved his hand to Athos’ cheek, turning his head slightly to face him. For Porthos, there was nothing better than the sight of his friend’s vivid blue eyes, even though they were currently dulled with pain and confusion. “Wha’?” Athos attempted to speak but his hoarse voice was interrupted by a series of forceful coughs, and Porthos moved to grasp the water skin so he could help his friend drink as soon as the coughs subsided.

 

Porthos lifted himself up to his knees, gently lifting Athos’ head and tucking a leg behind the older man so he was partially raised. Next, he reached again for the water skin and tipped it to Athos’ mouth, helping him take a few small sips before pulling it away. Athos gave a careful sigh of relief, “thank you.” His voice was reedy and weak but to Porthos, nothing could have sounded sweeter.

 

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, needing to know if his friend had any injuries of which he was still unaware.

 

Athos cleared his throat as he considered his body. His limbs felt leaden and his chest ached; he was cold to his core, unable to stifle the shivering that gripped him and made his head throb. Unlike previous injuries, he felt none of the sharp, hot pain that normally accompanied them and decided that he suffered from nothing more a complete lack of warmth and incredible fatigue. “Tired and cold,” he breathed out, unable to recall what had happened. “Where are we?”

 

Porthos allowed himself a small grin at the knowledge that Athos wasn’t hurt. “We’re a little ways from the river. Do you remember being attacked?”

 

Athos’ brow furrowed in thought and moments later he gave a short nod, “Bandits.” At Porthos’ encouraging nod, he continued. “I fell into the Seine.” He trailed off, recalling his inability to save himself, being pulled time and again underneath the dark waters until his lungs, starved for air, had filled with icy water, burning a trail of fire through his throat and chest. He swallowed uncomfortably and his breathing hitched and Porthos, as if sensing his unease, squeezed his shoulder with a hand and Athos unconsciously leaned into the warm touch. Turning his eyes back to Porthos he asked, “How did I get out?”

 

Porthos’ grin slipped as he answered quietly, “Did you really think I wouldn’t come after you?”

 

It was clear that Porthos’ reply had overwhelmed the other man and Athos found himself blinking rapidly against the tide of emotions that welled in his chest. When he spoke, his voice was low but clear, “thank you for saving me.” Another squeeze of Porthos’ hand on his shoulder was the only reply.

 

Porthos gave him several seconds to compose himself before turning to the business of their survival. “Athos, I need to know how you’re feelin’. I wasn’t in the water nearly as long as you and I’m as weak as a newborn foal.”

 

The rare admission startled Athos before he recalled that they were in the middle of a mission and any infirmity needed to be honestly shared. “I feel the same and fear I could sleep for a week if allowed to do so. Nothing specific hurts but I ache everywhere.” The sentence ended with a few weak coughs that had Athos momentarily closing his eyes. When he reopened them, he saw Porthos nodding in approval, grateful that he hadn’t tried to hide anything.

 

“I’ve got our clothes laid out to dry and we have the supplies I carried in my saddlebags. I think we can probably risk spending the night here, but we’ll need to get movin’ tomorrow. Will you be able to ride?” Porthos’ gaze had turned serious and lines of worry creased his brow as he spoke.

 

Athos recognized the need to leave the area where they’d been attacked behind, and whether he was physically able to ride or not, a way forward would need to be found. “I’ll be able to ride,” he confirmed, hoping that with a few more hours’ rest he would be able to fulfill the promise he’d just made.

 

"Alright,” Porthos agreed, “then that’s our plan. Stay here while I go check on our clothes.” With that, he shakily pushed himself to his feet, pleased when he felt steadier than earlier although the ache in his arm still throbbed abominably. Their shirts were dry while their leathers had shifted to merely damp, a substantial improvement from earlier. Deciding to leave the majority of their clothes to continue drying, he threw both shirts over his shoulder and then stopped to add more wood to the fire before returning to Athos’ side.

 

The older man had allowed his eyes to close again and Porthos tapped his cheek gently, rewarded moments later by two blue orbs framed by Athos’ still pale face, his lips slightly parted as he his chest rose and fell with each raspy inhale and exhale. “Our shirts are dry,” Porthos explained, pulling them down from his shoulder. “Do you think you can sit up if I help you?”

 

Athos nodded and gamely began to move, doing his best to push up with both arms while Porthos added his strength to the man’s back, pushing him upwards. The older Musketeer’s head hung between his shoulders for several moments before he managed to lift it, grimacing as he stated, “It’s difficult to believe that a simple swim can sap one’s strength so significantly.”

 

Athos sat with one hand on his chest, swallowing against the persistent urge to cough as Porthos snorted, “That weren’t no summer swim you took, Athos.” His face turned serious as he explained, “By the time I pulled you out, you’d stopped breathin’.”

 

Athos could see the devastation in his friend’s eyes and realized how distraught the man must have been to find that he’d drowned. Reaching a trembling hand out, he gripped Porthos’ arm, “I’m sorry.” Most would have thanked their saviours but Porthos needed assurances instead; assurances that his friends would not make him worry so, being more careful and doing their best to safeguard their lives rather than placing themselves at risk.

 

Porthos gave a shy smile as he nodded, “Not your fault.” Athos knew that his apology had been accepted and he reached for the shirts.

 

As he identified which was which and handed Porthos his shirt, he was surprised to see his friend watching him rather than getting dressed. His eyes narrowed and he took a careful look at the man, not having had the wherewithal to do so earlier. He noted the pinched expression that Porthos wore and how he cradled his right arm against his chest, the limb supported and held in place by his belt. Throwing his shirt over his head, he threaded his arms into the sleeves quickly, pulling the hem down to his waist. When he’d finished, he returned his gaze to his friend. “What’s wrong with your arm?” he rasped.

 

Porthos gave another sheepish grin, a part of him remorseful for not having said anything sooner while another part was gladdened at Athos’ return to awareness, his senses sharpening sufficiently to recognize that something was wrong. He nodded to the limb, “Broke it when we hit some rocks in the river.”

 

Athos gave a minute wince at the knowledge that his friend had been hurt while saving him. “Have we anything to split it with?”

 

Porthos gave a one-sided shrug, “Haven’t really had time to look.” Athos began to push himself up, intending to rise, but a wave of dizziness had him stilling, Porthos putting a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he tilted sideways. “Maybe you should stay here while I go find something we can use,” Porthos suggested, waiting until Athos reopened his eyes and gave a short nod, a series of short coughs erupting from his chest with his attempted movement.

 

The large man struggled to his feet, walking outwards from where he’d built their makeshift camp and, after a few minutes of searching, found two relatively straight sticks that could be used to keep the bones in his arm from shifting. He dropped them beside Athos and then rummaged through his saddlebag until he found the bandages which he’d begun to carry at Aramis’ insistence. Returning to Athos’s side, he sat down, fingers fumbling with the belt that held his arm to his chest.

 

“Here, let me help with that,” Athos said as he pushed Porthos’ hand out of the way, allowing him to brace the arm at the elbow while the older man released it from its makeshift sling. When the belt was gone, Athos gently moved his fingers along his friend’s forearm, knowing immediately when he reached the break as Porthos flinched and hissed in pain. “I’ll have to set the bone,” he stated, waiting for Porthos’ reaction. To his credit, the larger man simply clamped down his jaw and gave a short nod, recognizing as well as Athos that they could not wait to reach proper medical care, lest the bone begin to heal incorrectly.

 

Athos’ eyes shone with compassion for the agony he was about to inflict on his friend. “Do we have anything for the pain?” he asked. Porthos gave a shake of his head, indicating a lack of alcohol which would have helped dull his senses, his saddlebags filled with provisions and ammunition, while Athos had carried the wine. Sighing caused Athos to cough again and he waited for it to pass before placing his hands above and below the break. “Ready?” Porthos drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly and then gave a dip of his head. As soon as he did so, Athos pulled on the bone, as swiftly as possible aligning the two pieces, adding the wooden splint and wrapping everything tightly with the bandages.

 

Porthos had swallowed his cries of pain, biting his lip until it bled and tears leaked from his eyes. Now that Athos had finished and was placing his arm back into its sling, he felt utterly exhausted, the throbbing in his arm pulsing in waves that left him lightheaded and nauseous. Without realizing it, he found himself lying on the ground next to Athos, the older man pulling him close and wrapping them both tightly in the bedroll. “Rest, my friend,” Athos soothed quietly, sad at having caused the man such pain regardless of the fact that it was necessary.

 

Porthos’ eyes closed obediently and the older man watched as his features smoothed into sleep before he tucked himself tightly to the other man’s side. The fire was still burning strong and he anticipated they would have another couple of hours before they would need to make themselves ready for the night. Athos intended to use that time to recover as much of his strength as he could so that all of the work didn’t fall to his injured friend. Wrapping a hand carefully across the larger man’s waist, placing his head into the crook of Porthos’ shoulder, he closed his eyes but was surprised to find sleep eluding him, his awareness fuelled partially by the continued tightness in his lungs and the raw quality of his throat that had him wishing again for the wine in his saddlebags.

 

As he lay next to his friend, eyes still closed, he became aware of the stillness of the air around them, broken only by the occasional birdsong. While his one side was warmed, heated by the fire, the air that fell on his face was cool and carried with it a bite that promised several more weeks of cold temperatures before spring finally asserted its dominance. Athos allowed his breathing to slow, trying to ignore the tickle in his chest, and listened to the even breaths of his friend, grateful that Porthos was able to rest after the pain of having his arm set.

 

The vision of Porthos’ bruised and misshapen limb appeared in Athos’ mind and he shuddered involuntarily at how much pain the large man must have endured when saving him from the water and then caring for both of them afterwards. For Athos’ part, he had little recollection of his time in the river, the images scattered and disjointed and heavily coloured by fear. There had been many times in his life when he’d welcomed death, even wondering at the ways in which he might meet his end, especially in the days following Thomas’ death. At that time, he expected his end to come after some drunken brawl, his opponents usually armed with nothing more than their brawn and an inflated sense of themselves as a result of the ale they’d consumed. Later, after he’d joined the Musketeers, the circumstances surrounding his imagined death had involved a sword or musket, wielded by opponents who threatened King and country, and he envisaged fighting until his strength deserted him and he was overcome. Never had he considered death by drowning.

 

Some described drowning as a peaceful end, falling into darkness between one breath and the next, and most certainly a more pleasant way to die than by the sword. As another cough pushed its way from Athos’ chest, he vehemently disagreed. The panic he’d felt as he’d struggled to get his head above water; the glimpses he caught looking upwards as though covered by dark obsidian; battling against the relentless pull of the river; desperately fighting for even one swallow of air but finding icy liquid in its place – this was an experience that would frequent his nightmares for some time to come. When he’d finally succumbed, no longer able to deny his body’s need to inhale, the water had felt like tendrils of fire, racing a path down his throat to his chest, clawing and ripping him apart from the inside. Drowning, Athos would argue, was a most disagreeable way to die.

 

It left him feeling both weak and oddly vulnerable and he wondered at Porthos’ words - _by the time I pulled you out, you’d stopped breathin’_. Athos knew with unwavering certainty that he’d drowned, his body starved for air and his lungs filling with water instead. The haunted look in Porthos’ eyes had stopped him from pressing but now, as he waited for sleep to come he questioned, had he still been alive when he’d been rescued? Should his appreciation of Porthos’ actions extend beyond simply pulling him from the cold river to restart his lungs and include bringing him back to life as well?

 

He found himself more shaken than he wanted to admit by his train of thought, never having been overly concerned about his own mortality but for some reason, the thought of drowning in the Seine had him reconsidering. Perhaps it was the current discord between the four of them that had him craving life over death, a rare occurrence given the events of the past few months. The thought, once formed, took hold and he realized that he had a number of regrets that involved his brothers.

 

The look of disappointment on d’Artagnan’s face which, while not the only reason for his drinking, had shredded any willpower that remained and he’d given himself over fully to the sweet wine, the alcohol dulling the sharp edges of a life that once more had become almost unbearable. The animosity between himself and Aramis, stemming from the Spaniard’s inability, if not outright refusal, to distance himself from the Queen and Dauphin. The only person with whom Athos was still on somewhat good terms was Porthos, and even he had been distant, consumed by his own concerns and need to find his father. Athos was no stranger to regret, but these most recent troubles seemed representative of a larger failing on his part, a betrayal of sorts that he hadn’t experienced since hanging his wife.

 

Athos found himself shivering again and stifled another cough as he reached a hand out to add more wood to the fire. As he settled back down he resolved to himself that the life of a Musketeer was too fraught with peril to allow things between the four of them to continue as they had been. The decision brought him some comfort and this time, when he closed his eyes, sleep finally claimed him.  


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos knew that Athos was trying to assuage his concerns but they both recognized that the older man’s immersion and drowning would not be without consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for continuing to support this story through your comments and kudos. All of the boys are back in this chapter, although not necessarily together. Enjoy!

The damp and the cold continued relentlessly, to the point that d’Artagnan wondered if he would ever feel warm and dry again. They moved slowly in deference to their injuries and the mucky ground and the Gascon chafed at their speed, concern growing with every passing minute at Aramis’ condition. The two men had agreed that they would need to find safety before tending to the Spaniard’s wound but the task was proving more difficult than they’d expected and they were now two hours past where they’d been attacked with no shelter in sight.

 

To compound their misery, they were forced to push through their pain and fatigue, remaining ever vigilant of their surroundings, uncertain if and when they might be attacked again and in no condition to fight if it became necessary; until they could care for their injuries and rest, their primary strategy would be evasion and retreat. d’Artagnan’s shoulder throbbed with every motion of his horse and he could see Aramis still pressing a hand to his side, shoulders drooping while lines of pain made him appear older than he really was.

 

It took another hour before they found a place to stop, the building nothing more than one room shack with a hard-packed dirt floor, and d’Artagnan wondered at the poor unfortunate soul who had once called it home. When they’d both dismounted, Aramis waved to d’Artagnan to bring their saddlebags inside while he cared for the horses, a task that would be easier and quicker to accomplish with the use of two working arms. Grudgingly the young man agreed, placing the bags over his shoulder as he brought their supplies inside. Next, he walked around the building and scavenged what wood he could find, looking to the bases of trees and underneath larger bushes to locate twigs and branches that weren’t completely soaked through, Aramis joining him in the task when he’d finished with their mounts.

 

By the time he’d returned, Aramis was inside the small shack, looking around in disgust. “I swear I will never again complain about some of the filthy inns where we have to stay.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned at him as he let his burden drop, Aramis moving forward to arrange the wood so they could light it. A few minutes later they had a small fire chasing away the damp cold that permeated their bones and the Gascon turned his attention to his friend who was now sitting as close to the fire as he could, still holding a hand to his wound. “Aramis, we need to see how bad it is.”

 

The Spaniard grimaced but complied, removing his cloak first before undoing his doublet, d’Artagnan taking the former from him and hanging it on a nail next to his own so the garments could dry. By the time he’d finished, Aramis had shrugged out of his doublet revealing a large swath of red down his left side. d’Artagnan sucked in a surprised breath at the sight, the amount of blood his friend had lost clearly significant and he shook his head in disbelief that he’d managed to ride for so long without tending it. “Your shirt,” he said, pointedly asking Aramis if he wanted to try and salvage it.

 

“I have another in my saddlebags,” the medic replied, “and we can use this one for extra bandages once it’s properly dry.” d’Artagnan gave a nod and watched as Aramis slipped the damp shirt over his head, revealing a five inch gash that began at his ribs and travelled downwards toward his hip. The Gascon frowned in sympathy, knowing how uncomfortable it must have been to ride with such a wound and he passed Aramis the water skin so he could clean it.

 

Aramis braced himself as he poured the cold liquid along his side, flushing the wound thoroughly and leaving him breathing deeply. He handed the water skin back to d’Artagnan and picked up the bottle of spirits that the Gascon had placed at his side, pouring a measure of the fiery liquid on his wound in an effort to prevent infection. By the time he’d finished, he was gasping with the pain the strong alcohol had ignited, and he gratefully sat and tried to catch his breath as d’Artagnan wiped the wound dry.

 

“Thank you,” he said when he’d recovered enough. The Gascon gave him a hint of a smile, knowing the worst was yet to come.

 

He handed Aramis the sewing kit as he asked, “Can you do it or do you want me to?”

 

Aramis bit his lip as he considered the question. Sewing one’s own skin was decidedly unpleasant, and he would be the first to admit that he’d prefer not to do it if any other options were available. On the other hand, d’Artagnan had only one functioning arm, making the task an incredibly difficult one for him to manage. “Let’s do it together,” Aramis decided.

 

d’Artagnan nodded and waited for Aramis to thread the needle, pouring another measure of alcohol over it before they began. The Gascon then took the needle and waited for Aramis’ nod, indicating his readiness to proceed. When he received it, the young man pushed into the skin, pulling the needle partway through and then releasing it, allowing Aramis to pull it the rest of the way through. They continued in this fashion, with d’Artagnan placing each stitch and the other man pulling them tight, until they’d reached the end and Aramis tied off the thread.

 

Handing the needle back to d’Artagnan, Aramis took a large swig of the brandy they’d used, wiping a trembling hand across his brow afterward to rid himself of the sweat that had accumulated there. “That was a truly awful experience I hope to never have to repeat,” he stated when he was done. The Gascon pressed a clean bandage against the wound and held it in place as Aramis wound another around his torso, finishing by dressing in his clean shirt.

 

d’Artagnan waited for him to be done, having unpacked some of their provisions since it had been many hours since their last meal. Aramis looked distinctly uninterested but the Gascon pushed the food on him anyway, along with the water skin. “You know you need to eat something, even if you don’t feel like it. You lost a lot of blood and your body needs food and drink to recover.” Truthfully, d’Artagnan didn’t have much of an appetite either, the dull ache of his shoulder upsetting his stomach, but he knew that Aramis was unlikely to eat if he didn’t at least try to lead by example.

 

Aramis smiled a little as he took the food, “I’m glad to see that my lessons have not gone unnoticed.” d’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue, the medic’s advice having saved all of them, many times over.

 

As they ate, the Gascon asked, “Think Porthos and Athos are alright?” The question was a sound one although it was reasonable to assume that if their group had been attacked, the others had not been, the whole premise of their strategy to have one group act as a decoy for the other.

 

Aramis shrugged as he replied, “If they were, we can only hope the guards riding with them were of more use than the ones who accompanied us.”

 

Loss of life was nothing to be taken lightly, but it was true that out of their group, only the two of them had proven to have the skills necessary to survive, although d’Artagnan often wondered how much luck played into things as well. “We should spend the night here,” he stated, watching for Aramis’ reaction to his suggestion.

 

As expected, the Spaniard frowned, reminded of the Captain’s words that speed was a necessity but also aware that they both needed an opportunity to recover at least a portion of their strength. “Alright,” he agreed, “but we leave again at first light.”

 

d’Artagnan was happy to consent since he was also impatient to reach Le Havre, not only to complete their mission but to be reunited with their friends, needing to confirm with his own eyes that they were both well. They finished their meal in silence before gathering more wood and then retreating to their primitive shelter to spend the night. Before darkness had fully fallen, Aramis was asleep, d’Artagnan taking the first watch as his thoughts drifted again to their brothers.

 

While d’Artagnan was incredibly weary, the pain in his shoulder seemed to throb like a living thing, pulsing each time he shifted his upper body, tensing and pulling on the overstrained muscles around the joint. Aramis had tried to press some of the brandy on him, insisting that it would help him relax, but the Gascon had downplayed his pain, unwilling to drink the strong spirits, lest they be needed again later to clean future wounds.

 

When he’d offered to take the first watch, Aramis had again been overruled by d’Artagnan, the paleness and pinched quality of the medic’s features worrying enough that the young man was still uncertain about whether or not he would wake his friend later to take a turn standing guard. His brothers’ injuries had always troubled the Gascon but now, with the discord between them and the fact that he had only Aramis to rely upon until they reached Le Havre, he was feeling more protective than usual. That he’d been able to convince Aramis to sleep only added to his concern, knowing that the medic would put others’ welfare before his own and that he must need the rest dearly to have acquiesced. Even now, d’Artagnan could see faint lines of pain around the Spaniard’s eyes, indicating the sting of his wound.

 

The Gascon’s thoughts drifted to the others, wondering if Athos and Porthos were truly alright regardless of Aramis’ confidence. He knew from their own experience that skill was not always sufficient to ensure a positive outcome, with unexpected circumstances often turning the tide of battle in surprising ways. While he was certain that his and Aramis’ extensive training had helped them today, he had little doubt that fortune had also favoured them and contributed to their triumph over the bandits. Porthos’ and Athos’ skills were most certainly equal to their own, perhaps even better considering their combined years of soldiering, but they too would have struggled to defeat such a large force of attackers.

 

If they’d been attacked, would they have escaped unscathed? Were the Red Guards who’d ridden with his friends any better prepared or any more skilled than the men who’d accompanied the two of them? Worse yet, what if they’d been injured and their wounds were grave or even fatal? His thoughts had him tensing in response and he breathed out a quiet moan, stifling the sound as best he could as he gripped the elbow of his injured arm while he forced himself to relax, easing the muscles around his damaged joint.

 

The injury was in no way life-threatening but the lack of mobility it represented was dangerous, especially if they again found themselves under attack. For a moment, d’Artagnan considered releasing his arm from the makeshift sling, but he knew from experience that it would only increase the ache and extend his recovery time. Instead, he decided that he would leave the arm bound, but once they were on the road again, arrange it so he could easily slip the limb free, should he need it.

 

Shifting carefully, mindful of his sore shoulder, d’Artagnan arranged himself with his back to the wall, legs extended by the fire that illuminated the dingy space and tried to occupy himself with happier thoughts as he waited for the night to pass. 

* * *

It was the heaviness in his chest that pulled him from his restless slumber and a cough pushed its way out before he was aware enough to stifle it. Groaning lowly, he opened his eyes and shifted his head slightly, finding two dark orbs staring back at him with obvious concern. Clearing his throat, Athos asked, “How long have you been awake?”

 

Porthos gave a minute hitch of one shoulder, “Not long. Woke when you started coughin’ in your sleep.”

 

Athos gave a small nod, feeling the urge to cough again and trying to still it instead. Swallowing carefully he looked around, noting the soft gray of twilight as night descended. “We should gather more wood and dress before darkness falls.” Porthos didn’t reply and continued to watch as Athos attempted to push himself to a sitting position, the larger inhale he drew to accomplish the task pulling another round of coughs from him.

 

When the fit had passed, Athos lifted his head to see Porthos sitting next to him, his brow creased with worry. Offering a ghost of a smile, he tried to assure the larger man, “I have it on good authority that swallowing half the river can be adverse to one’s health.” Porthos knew that Athos was trying to assuage his concerns but they both recognized that the older man’s immersion and drowning would not be without consequences. It made their situation even more dire, with Athos’ condition unstable and likely to deteriorate quickly the longer they were forced to stay outdoors. Unfortunately, there was also little they could do about it other than to move at their best possible speed towards Le Havre once the sun rose the following morning.

 

Their silent conversation over, Porthos reached out to snag his discarded shirt, offering it to Athos who helped him dress, releasing his broken arm in order to thread the injured limb through the sleeve before helping him into his doublet. Athos laid a hand on the larger man’s shoulder as Porthos breathed shakily against the pain, silently offering the only comfort he could as his friend collected himself. When Porthos opened his eyes, he gave a dip of his head, “I’m good.”

 

Athos removed his hand and watched as Porthos gained his feet before extending his uninjured arm to help the older man up as well. Athos brought a hand to his chest as the movement made his lungs seize again and he waited for the coughing jag to pass. When it had, he gratefully took his doublet from Porthos’ outstretched hand and slipped into the mostly dry leather, shivering slightly at the coldness and wishing for it to quickly warm. Looking around, Athos suggested, “Since I’ve two working arms, I’ll collect more wood for the fire. Why don’t you get us something to eat and check on the horse?”

 

The two fell into their duties and within a half hour were both back at their spot by the fire, the horse having been tended and sufficient kindling found to last them until morning. As they shared a meal of hard bread and cheese, washed down with water, Porthos remarked, “You know that if we were attacked, there’s a good chance the others are safe.” Athos nodded, aware of that fact but trying his best not to pin all his hopes on it, lest it prove to be false. Porthos swallowed a bite before continuing, “We should retrace our path tomorrow and see if there’s anything left of our supplies.”

 

Athos narrowed his eyes at Porthos’ suggestion but, although he didn’t relish the idea of returning to the site of their attack, saw the wisdom in it. There were two of them now relying upon one horse and one set of provisions. Granted, Porthos packed more than the average person, but it might still prove a difficult journey with their supplies cut in half, plus he now realized that he didn’t have any of his weapons with him, having dropped his sword when he’d been bowled over. “Very well, we’ll leave at first light,” he agreed, clearing his throat carefully against the hoarseness that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.

 

When they’d finished eating, Porthos nodded toward their makeshift bed, “You should get some rest.” Athos startled at the suggestion, having assumed the two of them would lay down to sleep together as they had previously. “We’re still in danger and this position is less than ideal,” Porthos explained. “One of us will have to stand watch.”

 

Athos gave an absent nod, surprised that he’d forgotten such an important fact. Porthos, in turn, watched his friend with barely concealed worry. Normally, Athos would have been the one making the watch schedule and ensuring they would not be caught unaware during the night. Now, the older man had seemed shocked at the idea that one of them would need to stand guard in case their attackers returned; that fact alone had Porthos’ concern spiking. “Come on,” Porthos said as he stood, holding a hand out to help Athos to his feet. “I’ll help you over to the trees so you can take care of your needs.”

 

Athos took his friend’s outstretched hand gratefully, holding on for several seconds after he’d gained his feet as his chest convulsed with a fresh set of coughs. When the fit had passed, Porthos continued to steady the older man as he swayed, obviously lightheaded and still struggling to regain his breath. “Ready?” Porthos asked, his hand now gripping Athos’ bicep and the older man realized he had no memory of when their grips had shifted. Athos gave a small tilt of his head and forced his leaden feet to move, finding the act of walking much harder than it had been earlier, despite the fact that he was now much better rested.

 

Porthos took him to an area he’d begun using for their bodily needs and gave Athos a modicum of privacy, returning to grasp the older man’s arm as soon as he’d finished. Then, the large man bustled them both back to the fire, helping Athos lay down and covering him up to his chin. Athos’ eyes were almost closed as he looked blearily up at his friend, “Wake me when it’s my turn.” Porthos gave a grin and a nod which Athos interpreted as agreement. When the older man’s breathing had evened into sleep, still sounding louder than it should, Porthos reached his hand out to touch the man’s brow and frowned at the slight heat he found there. He himself still felt chilled from the icy swim they’d taken hours before, but Athos’ skin was warm to the touch, almost overly so. Combined with Athos’ ongoing coughs and his apparent forgetfulness regarding their situation, Porthos was certain that his friend was falling ill.

 

Sickness was not anything foreign for Musketeers although its cause was most often infected wounds; true illness, such as what now seemed to be plaguing Athos, was less common and, in Porthos’ mind, harder to fight. With infection, one kept the wound clean, lancing it or using salves and poultices to draw out the poisons that had been trapped inside; with sickness, there was nothing to be done other than caring for the body while it waged its battle against whatever was causing it to be ill. In truth, Porthos detested illness, the lack of anything to cauterize, lance or stitch making him feel decidedly helpless.

 

“Dammit, Athos,” Porthos said lowly, under his breath, the words stemming from dread rather than anger. “Keep this up and you’ll be givin’ the boy a run for his money.” The thought brought a ghost of a smile to his face as he was reminded of d’Artagnan’s propensity to do everything the hard way. The smile faded as worry for his friends replaced his earlier thoughts and his eyes drifted back to Athos’ face, now shining in the flickering firelight from the sheen of sweat that covered it. Grasping a corner of the cloak that covered the man, Porthos wiped the dampness away from Athos’ brow, muttering as he did so, “We need to get to La Havre and quick, before you get any worse.”

 

Making himself as comfortable as possible without actually lying down, Porthos settled in to watch over his friend, praying that dawn would bring them better luck than the current day had.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis pulled his way unseeingly to his feet, mumbled something about checking the horses, and then he was gone, d’Artagnan sitting alone on the ground, wondering what had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been following along with this story. Some more angst ahead for our boys in this one. Hope you enjoy!

d’Artagnan startled himself awake as the stiffness of his neck protested his awkward position, slumped against one wall with his head hanging to his chest. He’d valiantly fought the need for sleep, the ache in his shoulder welcome company as it provided something to focus on when his eyes threatened to close. Ultimately, he’d lost the battle and jerked himself awake numerous times, stubbornly refusing to wake Aramis or lay down next to the fire in order to get some proper rest. The result had him groaning quietly at how exhausted he felt, the tenderness in his arm battling for attention with his bruised ribs and he realized belatedly how badly Aramis must have felt to have forgotten to check his side when they’d found shelter.

 

His gaze settled on the Spaniard, still lying next to the fire which the Gascon had diligently tended throughout the night, adding wood to it each time he awoke. He was grateful for it now as the small flames warded off the chill of the morning and he shivered involuntarily at the thought of heading outside. Aramis’ face was still creased with faint lines of pain but his color was much improved from the previous night and d’Artagnan congratulated himself on making the right decision by allowing his friend to sleep. Of course, Aramis would not be happy with him, the Gascon thought to himself as he winced, knowing that a proper reprimand awaited, but content to allow it given how badly his friend had needed the rest.

 

Deciding to let him sleep a little longer, d’Artagnan pushed carefully to his feet, using the wall behind him to stand up. The new position tugged heavily at his damaged shoulder and he braced the arm with his hand to still the ache that movement had awoken. He walked quietly to where their cloaks and doublets hung and was pleased to find both dry, another testament to his conscientiousness in keeping their fire lit throughout the night. He eyed his doublet for a moment before deciding simply on his cloak, the latter being far easier to simply drape across his shoulders rather than trying to struggle into his doublet on his own.

 

Sufficiently warded against the cold, he gently eased open the door and exited, closing it firmly behind him so that the heat inside did not escape. He shivered when the morning air touched his skin, but he was pleased that while the ground was damp with dew, the rains that had plagued their journey so far had finally abated. There was every chance that this would change, of course, but for now he said a prayer of thanks for their change of fortune. He moved a sufficient distance away from the building to take care of his morning needs and then checked on their horses, happy to find that while somewhat damp, neither looked any the worse for wear. With a quick pat to his horse’s neck, he turned back to the house and slipped inside, grateful to feel the heat of the fire warm his cool skin.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan exclaimed, happy to see his friend awake and leaning against the wall. “How are you feeling today?”

 

The Spaniard held one hand against his side and his posture was stiff, but his eyes shone with new energy that had been absent after the previous day’s skirmish. With a grimace, Aramis replied, “My back may never recover from sleeping on this hard ground.”

 

d’Artagnan caught the glint of humour in his friend’s eyes and grinned in reply. “Perhaps your back will feel better when I tell you that it’s finally stopped raining outside.”

 

Aramis did in fact perk up at the Gascon’s declaration and slowly climbed to his feet. Anticipating the Spaniard’s need, d’Artagnan collected his friend’s cloak and passed it to him, receiving a nod of appreciation. “Why don’t you see what you can find us for breakfast,” Aramis suggested casually as he headed for the door. “Then we can discuss why you didn’t wake me to take my watch.”

 

The young man groaned as the door closed but a part of him was glad that Aramis felt well enough to berate him for his decision. Moving slowly, d’Artagnan pulled out some food for both of them, making a mental note to fill their water skins as well at the earliest opportunity since Aramis would still be dehydrated after his blood loss. When the Spaniard returned, the Gascon had resumed his place against the wall and he motioned with his head toward a bundle of food he’d laid out for his friend. Aramis settled down next to d’Artagnan, their shoulders touching, placing the bundle of food on his lap as he asked, “So, why didn’t you wake me last night?”

 

The young man had the decency to blush but made no apologies for what he knew was the right decision. Shrugging his good shoulder he answered, “You needed the rest and I wasn’t that tired.”

 

Aramis threw him a sideways look that communicated his disbelief of the Gascon’s words. “Aramis, it’s true. You were really pale last night and I know you were in a lot of pain. I’m not saying I’ll do the same thing tonight, but I don’t regret my decision.” d’Artagnan set his jaw stubbornly, waiting for his friend to argue but Aramis just gave a gentle shake of his head as he smiled.

 

“Alright, but you must promise me that you’ll let me take my turn tonight,” Aramis’ expression turned serious. “We have no idea if any of the group who attacked managed to get away, and it’s entirely possible that we haven’t seen the last of them. If we’re to survive another attack, we’ll both need to be as well-rested as possible.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned and nodded in reply, taking a bite of his breakfast. “How’s your shoulder today,” Aramis asked as he ate.

 

The Gascon swallowed and kept a neutral expression as he replied, “It’s fine.” This time he received a look of frustration from the Spaniard and decided it would be better to opt for the truth before Aramis decided to start poking and prodding at the sore joint. “It’s sore but I’ll be able to ride.”

 

Aramis gave a nod, popping another piece of bread into his mouth before letting his hand rest on his side where his own wound burned uncomfortably. Noticing the gesture, d’Artagnan stated, “We should clean your side before we head out today.”

 

Aramis was less than enthusiastic at the prospect of having his sore flank inflamed by the scrubbing needed to keep the wound clean, but he knew, better than most, the threat that infection posed, especially when they were far away from any type of medical help. “After we’ve eaten,” he grudgingly agreed.

 

A comfortable silence fell between them as they finished their meal and d’Artagnan couldn’t help but try to assuage his curiosity now that he had the other man alone. As Aramis removed his shirt and began to unwind the bandages that circled his torso, the Gascon quietly spoke, “Aramis?” The Spaniard grunted in reply, focused on his task. “What’s going on between you and the others?” d’Artagnan watched as the medic’s hands hitched in their movement before continuing as if nothing was wrong.

 

“Whatever are you referring to?” Aramis questioned, not meeting the other man’s gaze.

 

d’Artagnan rolled his eyes as he pressed, “Aramis, things have been off between the four of us for months; surely you’ve noticed.” The Spaniard gave another noncommittal grunt as he pulled the bandage free from his flank. The Gascon held out a clean cloth which Aramis dampened with their water skin, and then the young man moved forward and began to gently but thoroughly clean the wound, the medic focusing his gaze on a point somewhere over the young man’s shoulder. As d’Artagnan worked, he continued to talk. “I’m not proud of what’s gone on between me and Athos but at least I know what I need to do to fix it. What I don’t know is what’s happened between you and the others.”

 

He leaned back on his heels, positioning his face in front of the Spaniard’s and forcing Aramis to meet his gaze. Aramis sighed slowly, mindful of the pull of the stitches in his side as he covered them with a clean bandage and rewound the linen around his torso to keep it in place. When he’d finished, he picked up the dirty bandages so they could be discarded, finally replying, “It’s complicated, d’Artagnan.” He paused, hoping the answer would be enough for the young man, but the Gascon still sat waiting expectantly for Aramis to continue. The Spaniard scrubbed a hand through his matted curls as his other hand lay forgotten in his lap, still clutching the old bandages. “I have been…” he slowed, searching for the right word, “ _distracted_ as of late. The object of my distraction has made me a poor friend and Porthos has suffered for it.”

 

d’Artagnan waited quietly for several heartbeats before he prompted his friend to continue, “And Athos?”

 

Aramis nearly flinched but managed to recover quickly, “He disagrees with my choice of distraction.”

 

The Gascon’s face clouded with confusion, the Spaniard’s words revealing little of true value, so the young man tried a different tactic. “Surely you know that both will forgive you for being distracted?”

 

“Porthos, perhaps…” Aramis trailed off, his mind returning to years prior when he’d been a traumatized soldier in the aftermath of Savoy. As the only survivor, those around him celebrated his life, urging him to be grateful that he’d been given another opportunity when so many others had not. While the words had made sense once his addled brain cleared, his heart wept for the lost lives of his comrades and he was bound by grief and consumed with finding the answer to the question that occupied every waking moment – _why me?_

 

Athos had not yet joined the regiment, but he remembered how Treville had treated him with compassion and kindness, some part of his Captain recognizing how damaged Aramis was and treating him almost like a wounded animal who might startle and run at any moment. Most of the others at the garrison had behaved similarly, their actions in the beginning filled with quiet words and slow movements but then turning to frustration and even apathy when Aramis continue to withdraw. Porthos was the only one who didn’t treat him as though he might break and steadfastly remained at his side through every harsh word, hatefully yelled curse and fit of sobbing that marked the weeks after the massacre. Such was the depth of the man’s loyalty and friendship that he literally saved Aramis from retreating into himself and allowing the pain of living to finish the job that the soldiers at Savoy had begun.

 

After such a gift, how could Aramis ever hope to explain why he had not helped his best friend to do the one thing that mattered most to him – find his father? Aramis knew how deeply Porthos cared for his brothers, and the rational part of his mind dared to believe that the large man would forgive him, but he was not certain he was deserving of forgiveness. The way in which he’d treated his friend was more than poor, it bordered on abandonment, and for a man who’d had so little in life, abandonment was the ultimate sin. Aramis drew a shaky breath and blinked away his hazy vision, realizing belatedly that he’d fallen silent and d’Artagnan was watching him carefully. “Porthos might be able to forgive me, but perhaps he should not.”

 

The young man’s eyes narrowed at the Spaniard’s words, but he was determined to continue, certain that the festering wounds that had appeared between them needed to be lanced, something that could only be accomplished by moving brutally forward. “And Athos?”

 

A cynical chuckle escaped his lips before he could quell it and Aramis’ eyes turned haunted, fear and desperation warring with each other before the man could catch himself. “Athos can never forgive my choice and, if discovered, it will see us both hang.”

 

“What?” d’Artagnan startled, his eyes widening with shock at his friend’s words. “What are you talking about?”

 

Aramis’ jaw clamped closed and the hand holding the bundle of dirty linen found its way to d’Artagnan’s chest, pressing it there until the Gascon reached his hand up to take it. Then Aramis pulled his way unseeingly to his feet, mumbled something about checking the horses, and then he was gone, d’Artagnan sitting alone on the ground, wondering what had just happened. 

* * *

It had been Porthos’ intention to allow Athos to sleep through the night, but the older man had woken several hours later as harsh coughs erupted from his chest and he’d berated the larger man, as much as he was able given the low, hoarse quality of his voice, and taken over keeping watch. Porthos had reluctantly laid down, familiar with the look of determination in Athos’ eyes and recognizing that arguing with the man would be futile. He’d managed a few hours’ rest and woke just before dawn, the ache in his arm pulling him from the depths of his sleep and forcing him to open bleary eyes to a gray and overcast day.

 

Pushing himself up to a seated position, he took in Athos’ stiff posture sitting on the other side of their small fire, the dark smudges under both eyes speaking of how poorly the man was feeling. “Morning,” he grumbled when he noticed Athos watching him. The older man gave a short nod in reply but said nothing, and Porthos guessed that his friend’s throat had to be fairly sore after so much coughing. Wordlessly, he rose and left to take care of his morning needs, returning to find that Athos had pulled out a portion of their provisions and Porthos accepted the food before taking a seat next to the fire.

 

They ate quietly, Porthos observing his friend, watching the man rolling his eyes before taking a bite, his expression asking if the larger man was satisfied; Porthos gave a tilt of his head in reply, needing to know that Athos was eating enough to keep his strength up no matter how badly he might be feeling. It didn’t escape Porthos’ attention that his friend winced as he swallowed, another bit of proof that the illness which had been taking hold still held Athos firmly in its clutches. Even as the thought crossed Porthos’ mind, the older man began to cough, one hand helplessly pressed against his chest in a fruitless attempt to calm his spasming lungs.

 

Porthos watched as Athos almost doubled over with the fit and then panted for several seconds to regain his breath before taking a few cautious sips from the water skin. “It’s getting’ worse,” Porthos stated, his expression filled with concern. For a moment, he expected Athos to argue but then he simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak lest it set off another round of coughs. The older man had stopped eating and Porthos doubted he would be able to get anything more into his friend for now so, restless to depart, he suggested instead, “You feel strong enough to start getting our things ready to go?” Another tilt of Athos’ head was his reply and Porthos’ eyes tracked his friend as the man cautiously gained his feet, beginning to gather their belongings and heading toward the horse.

 

Porthos sighed as he watched his friend move away, seeing his shoulders shaking as he was racked with another set of coughs. At the speed with which Athos was getting sick, it was doubtful that they would make it to Le Havre before things turned grim, especially with only one horse and the need to keep their speed slow in deference to their injuries. Never had Porthos missed Aramis so keenly as he did right now. He had some basic knowledge of field medicine, as all soldiers do, and he could handle wounds inflicted by bullets and swords, but treating sickness other than the most basic types was beyond him. If Aramis were here he would be brewing teas or making a poultice that would ease Athos’ breathing and have him getting better instead of worse. Every minute that the two of them were away from civilization, and without the barest necessities like a warm bed and a roof over their heads, he knew that Athos’ health would continue to decline.

 

The thought scared him like no other, fearful that the older man might not even make it to Le Havre before he succumbed. It was not that he was a pessimistic man, and many would actually describe him as exactly the opposite, usually ready with an easy smile and able to see the positives in situations where others could not; life in the Court had taught him to take every opportunity to see the brighter side of life. But, it had also taught him how easily life could be extinguished and he’d seen many die of the symptoms that Athos now displayed, some lasting longer than others, but nearly all of them defeated without some sort of medical aid.

 

He knew that their mission had to take priority and Athos would push them to complete it, even at the cost of his own life if necessary, but Porthos was not certain that he was willing to trade his friend’s life in exchange for King and country. There were bound to be some towns between them and Le Havre, their final destination at least two days’ ride away at their reduced speed and, while Athos would argue vehemently against the need to stop, Porthos was confident that a night at an inn, along with a physician’s assistance, would do much to bolster Athos’ chances of surviving to reach the port city. So decided, he popped the last bit of food into his mouth and pushed himself upright, taking a moment to push down the throbbing in his broken arm. As he wandered toward Athos and the horse, he wondered if his friend would forgive him for what he was planning to do.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The land around them was still desolate and gray and d’Artagnan wondered whether he’d ever have the opportunity to fix things with his brothers or if his luck had finally run out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on your comments, apparently there's an expectation that the boys will find more trouble. I'm not sure if that's because they're trouble magnets or because I'm usually not very nice to them. Either way, I hope you enjoy this next bit.

Athos sat behind Porthos on their lone horse, having decided that it would be painful for the larger man if their positions were reversed with the older Musketeer then pressing against his friend’s broken arm. When they’d started out, Athos had sat mostly upright but as time passed, Porthos could feel more and more of his friend’s weight leaning against his back.

 

They sat now at the edge of yesterday’s battleground, and Porthos allowed a shudder to escape as he viewed the grisly scene. The bodies of the fallen men still lay scattered about, swords and pistols abandoned where they’d been dropped, ravens perched atop of many of the dead, picking away at the relatively fresh carcasses. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Aramis was not with them to witness the sight, the scene far too reminiscent of Savoy and bound to dredge up memories that would have had the Spaniard’s sleep plagued by nightmares for weeks. As if reading his thoughts, he heard Athos’ wrecked voice behind him, “Thank God Aramis is not here to see this.” Porthos grunted in reply and moved the horse forward, picking his way through the obstacle course of men and weapons.

 

The area was bereft of any other life, including the horses that had carried the men here, and Porthos gave a low sigh of frustration at the knowledge that they would have to continue sharing the one mount. “There,” Athos squeezed Porthos’ shoulder with one hand while his other pointed to a spot on the ground where his discarded sword lay. Awkwardly, the older man slipped from the horse to collect his blade and, after a few additional minutes of searching, added his main gauche and pistol to his belt. Feeling much better now that he was armed, he took a last look around, noting that Porthos had ridden further to do the same.

 

When the large man returned and stopped in front of him, Athos raised a questioning eyebrow, “Found the Red Guards; all dead.” The older man nodded at the confirmation of what they’d already suspected – they were entirely on their own until they reached Le Havre. Athos lifted himself clumsily back onto the horse and Porthos nudged the animal into motion, allowing it to carry them away from the death that surrounded them. Behind him, he could feel Athos pressing into his back as his friend coughed again, the rasping breaths that followed giving the large man little confidence that all would be well. Digging his heels in harder, Porthos urged the horse into a faster walk, clamping his jaw shut against the feelings of futility that threatened to burst from his chest. 

* * *

Aramis was grateful that d’Artagnan hadn’t followed him outside. Their conversation had stirred up fresh feelings of guilt and despair and he desperately needed some time alone to compose himself, rebuilding the walls around his heart which the Gascon seemed determined to dismantle. He agreed with the young man’s desire to fix things between the four of them, the idea of returning to the easy camaraderie they once enjoyed as intoxicating as the draw he felt for the Queen and her son; yet, he could not bring himself to confess his indiscretion, knowing that Athos would curse him for it, and that he himself would regret it should the young man ever learn of his secret.

 

In the Gascon’s mind the answer must seem so simple – apologize and forgiveness would follow. But real life was rarely so, instead a complex web of half-truths and deceit, with each person reacting to the others in an intricate dance that made predictable outcomes an unattainable goal. How he longed for the effortlessness of their earlier days, before he’d been bedevilled by the Queen, his every waking moment consumed only by thoughts of her and the Dauphin. The ache he carried in his heart when they were apart was enough to make him gasp for air, the atmosphere around him seemingly incapable of sustaining life when his two great loves were separated from him.

 

He knew that Porthos would call him a hopeless romantic, and he was probably right. Aramis did not have it within him to love by halves, instead throwing himself into the passionate emotion with all of his body and soul. Athos would be eminently practical, scolding him, _again_ , and reminding him that any minor lapse on his part could lead to not only his death but the deaths of the two who are dearest to his heart. It was this latter fear that had kept Aramis away so far, but with each day that passed, his resolve weakened, and he feared the day would soon come when he was no longer able to deny the adoration he held for Anne and her son.

 

On that day, he would have to run, away from Paris and away from his brothers, for the alternative was too much for his Catholic heart to bear; the only other thing that would keep them apart would be his death and he was too devout to take his own life – at least that’s what he told himself, not willing to admit that he might be too cowardly to complete the task. He groaned with the pain of his thoughts, a hand clutching at his curls as his tormented mind sought some form of relief, but he knew that it was not to be. For months now he’d tried to calm his churning mind, trying to lose himself in women and in the thrill of soldiering, when their missions brought sufficient risk to distract him for a short time. But no matter what he did, his need to be with the Queen always returned even more keenly than before, the compunction to go to her almost too strong to resist.

 

"Aramis," a hand settled gently on his shoulder and he startled, badly, not having heard d’Artagnan come up behind him. “Sorry,” the Gascon said contritely, retracting his hand and taking a step back as the Spaniard spun around to face him. Aramis’ face was stricken and for a moment d’Artagnan feared him to be ill, but then the man’s eyes shuttered and he came back to himself, giving a short nod before turning on his heel and walking toward the horses.

 

“I’ll get the horses saddled while you pack our things,” Aramis ordered, not waiting for a reply. As he strode away from the young man, one hand reached up to grasp the cross that hung at this throat and he clenched it tightly, willing it to infuse him with the strength he needed to continue. He made short work of readying the horses although the stitches in his side pulled painfully when lifted the heavy saddles into place. He gritted his teeth and continued regardless, still being the healthier of the two of them and the only one who could accomplish the task. When he’d finished, he leaned against one of the horses, a hand on the animal’s flank while his other hand braced his own side, trying to ease the ache that had flared.

 

d’Artagnan cleared his throat as he approached, unwilling to startle his friend a second time. When Aramis straightened and lifted his head, the Gascon knew he’d been heard and he moved closer, handing the Spaniard first one and then the other of their saddlebags. Aramis momentarily held onto the one that contained the package they’d been tasked to deliver and d’Artagnan decided to speak. “Hope whatever’s in there is worth all the trouble it’s caused.”

 

Aramis moved his hand and turned partway toward the Gascon, offering a faint smile by way of apology, “Not ours to question, my friend. Ours is simply to carry out our orders and live to fight another day.” d’Artagnan could hear what was left unsaid and his lips quirked in return as he felt the tension between them melting away. _“We will do our duty, as we always have. With luck, we will survive this mission and live to fix what’s gone wrong between us.”_

 

“Shall we?” Aramis invited, motioning toward the horses and the Gascon moved forward, mounting somewhat awkwardly with the use of only one arm. When they were both seated, the Spaniard eyed the young man for a moment, realizing guiltily that he hadn’t even examined the boy’s injured shoulder. “How’s your arm today?”

 

The Gascon gave a slight shrug of his good shoulder, “Sore, but I’ll manage.” d’Artagnan maintained eye contact with Aramis for a few moments more until the Spaniard gave a nod, indicating his body felt the same. They moved their horses into motion, d’Artagnan allowing Aramis to take the lead, the two men hopeful that they would be harder to identify if not riding side-by-side. Their positions didn’t allow for any conversation and both were on high alert, painfully aware that another attack could come at any moment.

 

The morning passed quietly and, had they not been uncomfortable because of their injuries, the day would have been the most pleasant one they’d had so far, the absence of rain an incredibly welcome change. They continued to ride within sight of the road but strayed off of it often to ensure that no one approached from either direction, their senses honed by a healthy mix of paranoia and self-preservation. Lunch was a similarly sombre affair, consumed while they rode, doing all they could to move faster since their physical states prevented anything more than a walk, a pace that might have them in Le Havre in three days’ time if those days began early and ended late. Both men were worn down due to their wounds, and d’Artagnan was exceptionally weary after staying awake the previous night, but neither voiced a word of complaint, nor were they willing to suggest stopping for anything more than the few minutes needed throughout the day to deal with their and the horses’ needs.

 

d'Artagnan was beginning  to lose his battle against the fatigue that weighed heavily on him, his eyelids threatening to remain closed after every blink and his body slumping low in the saddle, only his loose grip on the reins tethering him in place and keeping him somewhat aware. His shoulder throbbed dully and he could tell by the curve of Aramis’ spine that the Spaniard was also suffering. d’Artagnan finally conceded that they needed to stop before Aramis found himself in the position of having to pick him up off the ground once he’d fallen off his horse. Drawing a larger breath to call out, he was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoof beats and held his words as adrenaline flooded his body, washing away the exhaustion of before as if it had never been.

 

Ahead of him, Aramis straightened as well and the Gascon could see him looking around, trying to discern the direction of the approaching riders. Seconds later, the Spaniard’s head stopped, facing forward, indicating that whoever was moving toward them was coming from the direction they were travelling in. Aramis was already pulling his horse further off to the side of the road, seeking a place where they might hide even though the area they were currently travelling through was barren, covered with nothing but empty fields which would soon be obscured with tall grass, but currently held nothing but rutted and muddied ground. d’Artagnan wondered where they would run until it became clear that Aramis was simply trying to place as much distance between themselves and the riders in the hope that whoever it was would pass them by.

 

The Gascon knew it was an unlikely gambit but they had little recourse. Within a minute, the Musketeers had pushed their horses to a trot and the young man gasped with every stride of the horse, his shoulder jarring painfully with every footfall. Sweat beaded at his hairline, the dual challenge of staying quiet and remaining on his horse taking all his concentration. Sparing a quick glance behind, his heart fell as he saw horses following their trail, the soft ground having done nothing to hide their path and the open field placing the men in full view against the contrasting backdrop of grayish skies.  

 

d’Artagnan clamped down on a moan of pain and whistled lowly, Aramis glancing swiftly over his shoulder and then urging his horse into a gallop. The Gascon did the same, slipping his arm free from its sling in case he needed another hand. With the wind rushing past as they raced away, it was hard to tell whether their pursuers were gaining, but d’Artagnan remained focused on staying close to Aramis, feeling unsteady enough in the saddle that he kept facing forward. The sound of a pistol rent the air around them and he ducked low instinctively, knowing that if the ball had been aimed at him, it would already be too late. When he felt nothing and saw Aramis still astride his horse, he knew that neither of them had been hit, but it did mean the riders had closed the gap between them significantly.

 

d’Artagnan stayed low as another shot sounded and he realized that they were running out of time; the men behind them would either catch them shortly or the two of them would be wounded and fall. Squeezing his thighs more tightly to his horse’s flanks, he risked a look behind him and confirmed that their attackers were nearly upon them. It was at that moment that his horse stumbled and, unbalanced as he sat partly turned in the saddle, d’Artagnan’s tenuous grip slipped and he was thrown from his seat. A hoarse shout escaped him as he felt himself falling, the sound cut off abruptly moments later when his already injured shoulder collided with the ground and he rolled briefly before coming to a stop on his back, eyes closed and panting for breath against the agony.

 

The urgency of their situation was still uppermost in his mind as he forced his sore body to a sitting position, noting both the location of their pursuers and Aramis, the latter already preparing to turn back for him. With a second glance behind, d’Artagnan raised his uninjured arm and waved the Spaniard away, shouting as loudly as he could, “Go, don’t stop!” He could see the look of indecision in the Spaniard’s eyes and, for a moment, he feared that the man would not listen but then, with a dip of his head, Aramis was gone, pushing his horse back into a gallop. d’Artagnan dropped his head in relief, hand moving to cradle his injured arm, fairly certain by the amount of pain he was in that the limb was free from its socket once more. He focused on his breathing, intentionally slowing it to manage the ache and to prepare himself for what was to come, several horses already coming closer and surrounding him until he sat in the centre of six armed men.

 

d’Artagnan raised his head, squinting up at the men in front of him, noticing one of the bandits observing him closely. He waited, unwilling to make the first move and the man finally spoke, “Musketeer.” The man’s tone was neutral, but the man’s eyes were cold and dark. “Did you really think you could get away?” The words were heavily accented and d’Artagnan recognized the man’s native English tongue even though he spoke French. The bandit motioned to one of the others and a man drew away from their circle to collect d’Artagnan’s horse. They waited in silence until he’d returned and checked the Gascon’s saddle bags, finding no indication of the package they were seeking. “Where is it?” their leader addressed him again.

 

d’Artagnan lifted his chin defiantly but remained silent, wishing to himself that he was at least on his feet instead of sitting on the ground, his position making him feel even more vulnerable. “No matter,” the bandit shrugged, “we will either catch up to your friend before he reaches Le Havre or you will give us the name of the ship he is to meet.”

 

The Gascon snorted softly in reply and the bandit’s face split into a broad grin, his eyes remaining mirthless. “You think you won’t tell us?” He seemed amused at d’Artagnan’s defiance, which worried the young man, but he carefully schooled his features and kept a neutral expression. The bandit’s grin broadened, his eyes lighting up with anticipation, “Very well, I enjoy a challenge.” With a snap of the man’s fingers, two men had dismounted and were on d’Artagnan before he had an opportunity to move. Each grabbed an arm, pulling a yelp from the young man as his injured shoulder was yanked, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. When he’d managed to compose himself enough to look up, the leader was smirking at him in obvious satisfaction and d’Artagnan clamped his jaws firmly closed, determined not to make any additional sounds of pain.

 

His two escorts dragged him to his horse, pulling out a length of rope to tie his hands. As one of the men began to wind the rough twine around his wrists, the lead bandit whistled and shook his head when he had the man’s attention. “Behind his back,” he said. “Remember, he’s a tough Musketeer.” d’Artagnan met the man’s eyes but bit down hard on his lip as his tortured shoulder protested having his arm pulled behind him, the position allowing no reprieve from the fiery ache that had settled into the joint. It took two men to get him onto his horse and d’Artagnan almost moaned at how much he was jostled, nearly overbalancing, but catching himself at the last moment, after the violent heave he was given to get into the saddle. As one of the men tied a lead to his horse’s bridle in preparation to move, d’Artagnan pinned the leader with a steely gaze, asking, “Am I to know the name of my captor?”  

 

The man considered for a moment before shrugging, acting as if offering his name was of little consequence, “Pritchard.” Another moment passed before he continued, “and I’m the man who will know all your secrets, Musketeer.” With that, he pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and the Gascon found himself jostled as his mount was led forward. The land around them was still desolate and gray and d’Artagnan wondered whether he’d ever have the opportunity to fix things with his brothers or if his luck had finally run out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos needed medical attention and soon, and the large man surveyed the emptiness around them, cursing softly at the circumstances that had placed them alone and injured so far away from help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to apologize in advance for extending yesterday's cliffhanger as this chapter has us back with Porthos and Athos while d'Artagnan languishes in his captors' hands. (Ducks now to avoid rotten fruit.) Hope you enjoy regardless!

As the day progressed through morning and then lengthened into afternoon, Athos continued to fight against the illness that was slowly constricting his chest, making him pant for every shallow inhale as his body grew more fevered in its attempt to rid itself of whatever was making him sick. He’d begun the journey gently bracing himself against Porthos, but as the ride wore on, he found himself more and more disconnected, barely able to discern his surroundings through his fevered and confused state, his body weakening to leave him slumped heavily against his friend.

 

Porthos had been anxiously on the lookout for any signs of life but the two small villages they’d passed were nothing more than sad groupings consisting of a handful of homes, leaving him no choice but to press on in search of aid. He knew that Athos would disagree, should he still be aware enough to do so at this point, but the heat that emanated from the man’s body was enough to have Porthos’ heart in fits as he listened to each hard-fought inhale and exhale, interspersed with increasingly wetter sounding coughs. If things progressed in this fashion for much longer, he feared that Athos would be beyond help and he would be burying the man somewhere along the road they now travelled.

 

The thought brought forth a fresh surge of panic and Porthos gritted his teeth at their slow pace, desperately wanting to push the horse to go faster, but now just as fearful that Athos would fall if they sped up at all. As it was, he was beginning to wonder if they needed to change positions, despite the additional pressure it would place on his broken arm. The reminder of his injured limb pulled a wince from him, Porthos carefully silencing his own sounds of pain lest his stubborn friend begin to worry about him rather than about his own welfare. He knew that being on a horse so soon after his injury was a poor idea, the bone jostled with each jarring step the horse took, but they had no choice and he promised himself that if they found a physician, he would gladly accept whatever pain relief the man offered.

 

Athos’ coughing pulled him from his thoughts and Porthos found himself once again holding his breath as he waited for his friend’s fit to end and for him to draw his first few shaky inhales, as had become the pattern over the past few hours. He waited and waited, realizing only when his own body screamed for air that he hadn’t yet heard Athos breathe and the man was now completely limp against his back. The realization lasted for only a moment as the warm weight of Athos’ body shifted and then disappeared, the older man falling from the horse unconscious and landing on the ground beneath the horse’s feet.

 

Porthos pulled up on the reins immediately, the concern for his friend spiking as he clumsily dropped from the horse, swaying a moment with the sudden throb of his arm as his feet jarringly hit the ground. Seconds later he was kneeling at Athos’ side, rolling him slightly to ease the man onto his back. Athos’ normally pale complexion had incredibly faded further, giving him the appearance of being almost gray, except for the two patches of red high on his cheeks, visible proof of the illness that ravaged his body.

 

Awkwardly, Porthos leaned forward, placing an ear to the older man’s chest, relieved to find both a heartbeat and the stuttering rise and fall of Athos’ ribs as he fought for air. Pulling the glove off his hand with his teeth, Porthos placed it against his friend’s forehead, frowning deeply at the heat that emanated from him. Athos needed medical attention and soon, and the large man surveyed the emptiness around them, cursing softly at the circumstances that had placed them alone and injured so far away from help.

 

He allowed himself only a moment of self-pity before shaking himself from his fugue, his normal determination reasserting itself as he considered how he would get Athos back onto their horse with only one functioning arm. Coming to the realization that thinking about it too long wouldn’t solve anything, he freed his arm from its sling and then pulled Athos’ torso upright, allowing it to rest for a moment against his broad shoulders as he readied himself for the next step.

 

“Hold on, Athos, I’ll get us out of here,” he whispered lowly in his friend’s ear. Wrapping his arms firmly around Athos’ boneless form, he pushed himself upwards, grunting softly at the stress on his splinted arm. He dragged Athos the two steps to the horse, praying that the animal would stay calm while he tried to manhandle his friend’s limp body onto its back.

 

Drawing a steadying breath, Porthos released his hold and bent his knees, allowing Athos to fall forward across the shoulder of his broken arm, with the limb wrapping around his friend to keep him from falling. The added pressure as the older man’s body pushed on the break brought tears of pain to Porthos’ eyes and he breathed heavily for several moments until he’d could move again. Blinking to clear his vision, he raised his head to look at his objective, wondering if he had enough strength left to lift them both into the saddle. Placing a hand on the saddle he managed to get a foot into the stirrup before gritting his teeth and pushing off the ground. The muscles of his back and shoulders rippled with the strain of the added weight and he grunted as he swung a leg over the horse, moving quickly to steady Athos’ body where it swayed alarmingly across his shoulder.

 

He waited for nearly a half minute before he felt ready to continue, leaning forward carefully to let Athos slip from his back onto the horse and then manoeuvring the man until he was resting against his chest. Porthos panted heavily with the pain and effort of his accomplishment, feeling the sweat that dampened his shirt and beaded at his hairline. He took stock of himself and knew he would never be able to manage the task again and the next time they got off the horse, there would be no getting back up. Reaching around Athos, he snuggled the man’s body into his own as well as he was able, tamping down the pain that surged and forcing himself to take hold of the reins. Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, he got them moving, clamping his jaw shut as the motion of their mount pushed Athos against his broken arm with every step.

 

His focus narrowed to keeping them both on the horse, barely paying attention to the road ahead and trusting that the animal would continue to follow it. The sound of Athos’ hoarse wheezing filled his ears and he prayed that the man continued to fight until they could reach help. He was shocked out of his pain-filled haze when the horse abruptly stopped, forcing heavy lids open to find that night had nearly fallen and they had reached a town. His dulled mind comprehended that they were standing still and his eyes drifted downwards, noticing a boy waiting patiently in front of the horse. “Wha’?” Porthos asked, still trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

 

“Take your horse, sir?” the young man asked, waiting expectantly to receive the reins that lay in Porthos’ hand.

 

Porthos gave himself a small shake, eyes moving to take in their surroundings before answering. “Where are we?”

 

The young man gave him an odd look but replied, “You’re in Bouquelon.” He motioned to the building behind him. “I’ll take care of your horse if you’re taking a room for the night.”

 

Porthos’ gaze moved to the building and a ghost of a grin curved his lips as he realized they’d arrived at an inn. Eyes clearing with renewed energy, he asked, “Do you have physician in town?”

 

The boy hesitated for a moment and then nodded, his eyes moving to where Athos still sat slumped and unaware. “Good. Send someone for him before you take care of the horse.” Another nod from the young man had Porthos considering how he would get them both down but the stable boy seemed to sense his dilemma.

 

He turned on his heel and ran toward the inn, disappearing inside and reappearing several seconds later with a man bustling behind. The two arrived at the horse’s side and the man examined the two Musketeers warily, uncertain of the danger they might have brought.

 

Sensing the man’s discomfort, Porthos explained, “We’re King’s Musketeers and my friend was hurt when we were attacked by bandits. We need a room and medical help.” He waited for a few heartbeats as the man considered the words and then nodded to Porthos.

 

“Alright. Nicolas, go fetch the healer and then take care of the horse.” Turning back to the two men who still sat astride the horse he said, “I’m Jérôme Gagnon and I will help you and your friend to a room.”

 

Porthos gave a nod of gratitude. “I’m Porthos and this is Athos. If I tip him towards you, do you think you can catch him?” he asked Gagnon. After receiving a nod in reply, Porthos worked to slowly lower Athos sideways into Jérôme’s waiting arms, watching as the man gently lowered Athos to the ground. When he was satisfied that Athos had made it down safely, he slid from the saddle, grunting as his arm was jostled. Gagnon was observing him and when Porthos met his gaze he stated, “You’re hurt too.”

 

Porthos grunted noncommittally in reply, his sole focus on getting help for Athos. With a man under each shoulder, the two carried Athos inside and into a room, laying him carefully on one of the two narrow beds. “Thank you,” the Musketeer said as he slumped tiredly at the edge of the bed, bracing his injured limb in an effort to still the dull ache that seemed to have taken up residence there.

 

“I will have the healer sent in as soon as she arrives and will bring you something to eat and drink,” Gagnon stated as he retreated from the room. Porthos nodded numbly, his attention back on his ailing friend, noting the still sallow complexion and how difficult each shallow inhale seemed to be. Recalling others who had fallen ill with breathing problems, he brought over the pillows from the second bed and managed to manhandle Athos upwards enough to lodge the extra pillows behind the man’s back. The result had Athos reclining at a forty-five degree angle and hopefully breathing easier. When he’d finished, Porthos returned to his seat at the man’s side, staring at him as though worried that each breath might be his last, completely losing track of time as his own fatigue overwhelmed him.

 

A knock at the door startled him and he hadn’t even managed to stand before the innkeeper returned, an older woman following in his wake. The woman’s eyes darted perceptively over Porthos and then moved to Athos and she made a beeline for the bed, issuing orders as she moved. “Jérôme, I’ll need water and clean cloths and your assistance to get both these men out of their leathers.” Eyes narrowing at the way that Porthos held his injured arm protectively to his side had her continuing. “Also, an old pillowcase or sheet that I can use as a sling along with some warm food and wine.”

 

Gagnon only nodded, seemingly unperturbed at the woman who’d swept in and acted like she owned the place. Porthos had just managed to gain his feet when the woman arrived at the side of the bed and he positioned himself between her and Athos. She stopped, allowing him to assess her as her eyes softened at the lines of pain and fatigue she saw on the large Musketeer’s face. Without waiting for him to ask, she introduced herself, “I’m Madame Fontaine and I’ve come to care for your friend.” She pointedly did not say _you and your friend_ , sensing the man’s protective nature and that the best way to get past his guard was to focus on the prone man on the bed.

 

Athos interrupted Porthos’ quiet examination of Fontaine as he started to cough and then gag, something blocking his airway and preventing him from drawing breath. The woman wasted no time and moved nimbly around the Musketeer to pull Athos upward by his shoulders, smacking his back soundly with one hand while she held him steady with the other. “Jérôme, I need those supplies now and leave my bag.” For the first time, Porthos noticed the large bag Gagnon carried and now dropped on the ground next to the woman. She turned her head toward Porthos for a moment, instructing him, “There are some clean clothes inside; I need one now.” Expecting that the Musketeer would do as he’d been asked, she turned her attention back to her patient who was still gagging weakly against whatever was caught in his throat and she smacked him firmly again, coaxing him to cough out whatever obstructed his airway.

 

Porthos did as he was asked, completely out of his element and with no further ideas about how to help his friend. Athos’ face was turning an alarming shade of red as he struggled for air, his eyes partly open but unseeing as Fontaine coached him to dislodge the mass that was choking him. Porthos grabbed a cloth from the bag and thrust it forward, Fontaine nodding and directing him, “Place it in front of his mouth.” He did as he was told and watched as Athos finally managed to clear his throat, a mass of something landing in the cloth he held.

 

Porthos’ nose wrinkled in disgust but his reaction was only momentary as he returned his gaze to his ill friend who was now pulling some shallow breaths, the sound of which did little to inspire confidence but were still better than listening to the man suffocate. Fontaine held him upright for another minute before gently easing him back, Athos’ eyes already closed with the exhaustion of battling for air. The woman stood and Porthos looked at her, the need in his face clear as he asked tremulously, “Will he be alright?”

 

She placed a hand on his bicep, her features softening again in compassion at the worry the Musketeer held for his friend. “I promise I will do everything in my power to ensure that he is. Now, tell me, how did this happen?”

 

Porthos would normally be far more guarded with someone he’d just met, but his relief at having help combined with his deep weariness had him relating the story of how Athos had been pushed into the Seine, his subsequent rescue, and the hours they’d spent outside in the cold. Through it all, Fontaine’s hand stayed on his arm, the warmth there reminding Porthos that he was no longer alone. It wasn’t until she tried to steer him away from Athos’ bed that she encountered resistance, the man unwilling to leave his friend’s side.

 

“You have hurt your arm,” she stated, looking down pointedly at the splinted limb. “You have done an admirable job of caring for your friend and now I ask that you let me help – let me help both of you.” Porthos seemed uncertain and his gaze drifted back to Athos, confirming that the man’s chest still rose and fell with every breath. With a hint of a smile, Fontaine pressed, “Please, come sit down on the other bed before you fall down. I’m certain I haven’t the strength to lift you if that happens.”

 

Porthos picked up on the slightly teasing tone but also heard the genuine concern underneath as he allowed himself to be led to the other bed, which was only a few steps away from Athos’. Once he was seated, Fontaine kneeled in front of him, “When Jérôme returns I will ask him to help me undress your friend and I will mix some medicine that will help. Afterwards, you will let me help you and you will eat and sleep.”

 

Porthos looked ready to disagree, his eyes drifting once more to Athos, fearful of not being at the man’s side while he was so ill. “I promise I will stay and tend to your friend throughout the night. Will you let me do this for you?” Her tone was beseeching and Porthos found himself nodding, a lump of emotion in his throat at the kindness the woman was extending to them. She smiled at his response, her eyes lightening and years falling away from her face in genuine relief that the Musketeer had agreed to accept her help. Squeezing the hand of his uninjured arm, she stood and moved back to Athos’ side, beginning to undo the fastenings on his doublet so she could make him more comfortable.

 

When Gagnon returned, it was with hot and cold water and several clean cloths. Behind him, Nicolas followed with a tray that carried a bowl of hot stew, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine with two cups. The boy brought the food over to Porthos and set it on a small table next to the bed while the innkeeper moved to help Fontaine. Porthos kept a careful eye on them as they worked to undress his friend, Nicolas standing at his side talking. “I fed and watered your horse, Monsieur, and I’ll clean your tack later. Mama makes the best stew in town and she gets right upset when we don’t eat. Says it’s disrespectful to put all her hard work to waste.” A part of Porthos’ mind registered the words and he accepted the bowl being pressed into his hands, absently taking a bite and nodding appreciatively at the flavours that exploded on his tongue.

 

“This is really good,” Porthos stated, making the boy grin widely.

 

The food reminded his stomach how long it had been since he’d eaten a proper meal and he shovelled another spoonful into his mouth as the boy continued to chatter. “Madame Fontaine is the best healer around as well. Some people won’t take her help ‘cause she ain’t a proper doctor.” He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially as he whispered, “It’s ‘cause she’s a woman.” At Porthos’ nod, he continued. “But, papa says she’s better than any man and she’s helped more people around here than he can count.”

 

The boy’s assertion of the woman’s skill eased the band of worry that constricted Porthos’ chest and he gave another tilt of his head as he finished his stew. “Nicolas, go take care of the tack and then see if your mother needs help,” Gagnon told his son, familiar with how the young man loved to talk. The boy scowled but did as he was told, likely preferring the excitement the Musketeers had brought over the boredom of doing chores.

 

Porthos poured himself a cup of wine, gulping at the thick red liquid in the hope that it would bring him some relief from the throbbing of his arm. When he’d finished the first portion, he poured himself another, drinking slower this time as he waited for Fontaine to finish with his friend. Athos had been stripped down to his braies and the healer had listened to his chest before requesting that Gagnon bring more pillows from another room. Then, she pulled several items from her bag, pouring a mixture of herbs into a cup of hot water before setting it aside to allow it to steep. A poultice came next and Porthos sniffed appreciatively at the pleasant scent of the paste that was added to linen and placed on Athos’ congested lungs. Once the additional pillows had been positioned at Athos’ back, Fontaine rose and moved to Porthos’ side, waiting for permission to examine his arm.

 

“May I?” she asked, hands hovering over the splinted limb which he cradled in his other hand.

 

Porthos dreaded the idea of having anyone touch the broken bone but recognized the necessity and gave a tilt of his head in permission. The healer carefully unwrapped and removed the sticks they’d used as splints, tutting quietly when the red and swollen limb was exposed. “This happened when you saved your friend?” she queried.

 

“Yeah, Athos wasn’t breathing and we got tossed against some rocks,” Porthos confirmed.

 

She gave him another gentle smile, “Athos is indeed fortunate to have such a good friend.” The Musketeer gave a small grin of his own before looking away and Fontaine returned her focus to the broken arm. With warm fingers, she pressed along the length of the limb, confirming no other breaks and that the bone had been correctly set. By the time she’d finished, Porthos’ was breathing heavily and his face was covered with a sheen of sweat. Laying his forearm tenderly on his lap, she rose, stating, “I believe I have something better in my bag that we can use as a splint.” She moved away to gather the items, allowing Porthos a minute to collect himself.

 

When she returned, she locked gazes with him for a moment to confirm that she had permission to continue. First, she helped him out of his doublet and shirt, knowing that the splinted arm would never fit into the sleeve and wanting the new bandaging to sit directly against his skin rather than around the leather of his doublet as the previous splint had. When both items had been removed, she carefully positioned two narrow lengths of wood on either side of the break, wrapping his forearm firmly with linen to keep everything in place. Once she was done, Porthos breathed out shakily. “Would you like me to help you back into your shirt?” Fontaine asked kindly.

 

Porthos’ immediate reaction was no but he recognized the necessity and gave a nod, bracing himself for one last bit of agony as his arm was threaded into the shirtsleeve. When they’d finished, he dropped his head and closed his eyes, curling protectively over the arm that was causing him so much pain. He must have drifted off for a few moments because when he next looked up, the healer was sitting beside him with a cup of something, encouraging him to drink. “What is it?” he asked.

 

“Something for the pain,” Fontaine replied, still waiting expectantly for him to take it.

 

Porthos’ eyes flickered toward his friend who seemed to be resting quietly for now and he wondered whether he could afford to take the proffered cup. “As I have already explained, I will stay and care for him tonight. If you are to be well enough to take over tomorrow, you must get some rest and you cannot do that while in pain.”

 

Sighing, Porthos took the cup from her hand. “Suppose you’re right.” He drained the cup quickly, making a face afterwards at the bitter taste.

 

His expression brought a smile to Fontaine’s face, “I often believe that it would not work as well if it did not taste as bad.”

 

Porthos gave a grin in reply as he passed the cup back, his thoughts turning to Aramis. “Yeah, I have a friend who says the same thing.” The memory of his friend’s words momentarily made his face light up until he remembered the current strife between them and his expression clouded instead. Fontaine watched the change in his mood and sensed that there was more to the story, but decided not to press the man tonight.

 

“Come,” she said as she began to push gently at his upper body, encouraging him to lay down on the bed. “The draught will help you sleep.” Porthos doubted he would need the help but was grateful to feel the sharp pain in his arm dulling as the brew he’d drunk began to take effect. His eyes slipped closed as soon as his head rested on the mattress and he wasn’t even aware of the healer removing his boots and covering him with a blanket. The woman looked down fondly at him for a moment before moving a chair to Athos’ bedside, sitting down to fulfill her promise to the large Musketeer.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis groaned, his head throbbing with indecision as he scrubbed a hand angrily across his face. His friends all had their opinions, but he was the one who would have to live with his decision and, ultimately, be judged by God for his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter. We're back to d'Artagnan and Aramis in this next one to find out what happened after d'Art's capture. Enjoy!

A heavy fog had descended on them that afternoon, and evening seemed to come even earlier than normal, the twilight mingling with the mist around them to bring a darkness that seemed oppressive in its completeness. The bandits appeared to know where they were going and hadn’t gone far, returning to the road they’d been travelling parallel to and following it further toward Le Havre before stopping at a dense copse of trees where they’d obviously established their camp. It wasn’t much, but they’d erected a couple of small canvas tents, dug a fire pit and set up an area where the horses could be tethered for the night; it made d’Artagnan wonder just how long the men had been lying in wait for their arrival.

 

The men wasted no time in starting a fire, another taking care of the horses while others gathered additional firewood or began to prepare food. Through all of this, d’Artagnan sat on the damp, cold ground, his arms tied awkwardly behind him around the trunk of a tree. He shivered, stifling the groan that threatened as the motion pulled at his dislocated shoulder and he could feel the heat from the swollen joint throbbing angrily, thinking ironically, that it was the only part of him that felt warm. They allowed him to keep his doublet and cloak but stripped him of his weapons, although he doubted he was much of a threat in his current condition, the pain of his injury wearing him down. The only consolation in his misery was the knowledge that Aramis had escaped. No matter what happened, the bandits would be frustrated in their objective because d’Artagnan would not divulge what he knew and Aramis would safely deliver the package to the ship in Le Havre.

 

d’Artagnan snorted quietly to himself, wondering idly when forfeiting his life had come to equal victory. He, like all of the Musketeers, knew he would likely die one day in battle, but death in exchange for a package seemed a poorer reason than some. Regardless, it was not his choice; the day he’d accepted the King’s commission, he’d given his life over to the man and it was now the royal’s right to do with it as he wished. He did not regret it, not really, but he did regret the fact that he was leaving Constance behind. It seemed like they’d just finally found happiness in their love for one another and now it was to be cruelly ripped from their grasp, leaving Constance alone and mourning.

 

The thought made him ponder escape. He wasn’t sure if it was even an option, but considered trying regardless until he reminded himself that Aramis needed time; time to reach Le Havre and the ship that waited, and time that only d’Artagnan could buy for him by keeping his captors occupied rather than allowing them to chase after his friend. It seemed a better reason to die for and the Gascon decided that it was one worthy of his life. So resigned, he waited for the men to come and question him, Pritchard’s earlier words leaving no doubt in his mind that the men would turn their attention to him soon enough.

 

His prediction came true within the hour as the men first took their time to rest and eat an evening meal, none of which was offered to the Gascon, and he scowled bitterly at the men, his stomach sitting painfully empty after not having eaten in several hours. Pritchard meandered over, his stature almost casual, belying the seriousness of the situation. d’Artagnan steeled himself as the man stopped in front of him, flanked by two hard looking men on either side. The bandit crouched down on his heels, being careful to stay just out of range of the Gascon’s feet, unaware of the fact that the young man had no intention of trying to escape. “Are you ready to talk now?” Pritchard asked, the grin on his face a reflection of the confidence he felt.

 

d’Artagnan considered staying quiet but knew he had to keep the man’s attention; if it became apparent too quickly that he was merely stalling for time, they might just kill him and ride out after Aramis. “Depends on the question,” the Gascon returned, doing his best to mirror the man’s casual demeanor, even though it was harder to pull off while bound to a tree.  

 

The grin on Pritchard’s face widened, seemingly amused by his captive. “What is the name of the ship you’re to meet in Le Havre?” The man’s French, while grammatically correct, was accompanied by pronunciation that made it painful on the ear and d’Artagnan cringed internally at listening to the man speak.

 

“There are many ships in Le Havre this time of year,” the Gascon conceded. “What makes this one so special?” He had no idea whether the bandit would reveal any of what he knew, but d’Artagnan figured it was as good a way of passing the time as any other, and it was just possible he might satisfy his curiosity before he was killed.

 

“I’m certain you have a better idea of this than I do,” the bandit retorted, his tone remaining conversational.

 

“And I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about,” d’Artagnan parried, unwilling to give anything away, especially so early in their game.

 

“Hmm, I had thought you might say so,” Pritchard admitted, slowly rising to his feet. As he turned away, he spoke to his men, “Please show our friend why it would be in his best interests to cooperate.” He walked back to the fire and sat down while the other two moved forward, taking turns striking his face and torso. The mistreatment didn’t last long, only long enough for Pritchard to down a glass of wine and then he was back, talking in reasonable tones as if d’Artagnan was the one acting irrationally. “Anything you’d like to share with me now?”

 

The Gascon turned his head to the side, spitting out a mouthful of blood that had pooled from a cut inside his mouth, his teeth having sliced into his cheek after a vicious backhand. He panted carefully, doing his best to slow his breathing and not wince after the men’s treatment had reawakened the pain in his bruised ribs. His shoulder ached as well, his body having been thrown sideways several times from the force of the blows that had struck him, tugging mercilessly at the injured arm which was held fast by his bindings. Swallowing carefully after he’d emptied his mouth of the coppery liquid, d’Artagnan met the man’s gaze as he slowly answered around a rapidly swelling lip, “Not sure I remember the question.”

 

“Surely you know that your only value to us is in the knowledge you possess?” Pritchard countered, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

 

“And surely you know that a few punches are insufficient motivation for me to betray my mission,” d’Artagnan replied evenly.

 

The Gascon’s words had pulled a chuckle from the bandit and he nodded to one of his two men, who walked back to the fire and out of the young man’s sight, Pritchard blocking his view. “I had thought they might be, but it was worth a try. Fear not, we have other forms of persuasion.”

 

d’Artagnan kept his features neutral as he tried not to think about what forms of _persuasion_ awaited him, fearing that he would have first-hand knowledge all too soon. Pritchard, for his part, gave nothing away, standing nonchalantly a few feet away as they waited for the man to return. When he did, he handed the leader a knife and for a few seconds the Gascon steeled himself for the pain of having his flesh cut. The two bandits moved forward and pulled his cloak away from his chest, doing the same with his doublet and yanking at the collar of his shirt to expose the skin beneath. d’Artagnan found his breath speeding involuntarily and he clamped his jaw down hard as Pritchard stepped forward, a maniacal grin on his face.

 

He pressed the knife to the Gascon’s torso, holding it there for a count of five before pulling it away and observing his captive’s reaction. d’Artagnan’s nerves were on fire. The blade that had touched his skin had ignited such heat that he’d barely contained his cries of pain and surprise as the knife burned his tender flesh. He’d been expecting to be cut and the shock of the scorching metal had nearly undone him as his brain was overwhelmed by the signals it was receiving. Now, he found himself gasping, his head tipped low to his chest, nostrils assaulted by the smell of burnt flesh causing his stomach to roil dangerously. Forcing himself to look up, he met Pritchard’s gaze and found the man completely unmoved by the pain he’d just caused; if anything, the man wore an expression of satisfaction at having shaken the Musketeer.

 

The bandit now held the knife up to the firelight as though examining its smooth surface, “A far more interesting use of a blade, wouldn’t you say?”

 

d’Artagnan glared at his tormentor, his mouth firmly closed against the curses that threatened to break forth. Pritchard’s henchman returned to his side, swapping a freshly heated blade for the one in his leader’s hand and he held d’Artagnan’s eye for a moment before pressing it firmly against the Gascon’s chest. The young man had no sense of time as he fought against the searing sensation, jaws clamped so tightly together he was certain his teeth would shatter from the force. When the knife was removed, d’Artagnan found tears leaking from his eyes as he pulled desperate breaths against the agony that continued to burn despite the blade’s removal.

 

As though knowing the Gascon’s thoughts, the bandit spoke, “That’s the fascinating thing about burns – even when the heated object is removed, the flesh continues to burn and throb for hours.” d’Artagnan felt tremors throughout his body at the onslaught of pain he’d endured, but he still managed to scowl defiantly at the man. Pritchard wasted no time in stepping forward with another hot blade, finding a new spot of unblemished skin on the Gascon’s chest and the young man again felt the exquisite agony as more of his skin was burned, his entire body stiff and straining to pull away but completely unable to do so in his current position. As the seconds ticked by without relief, a shout of pain was forced from his chest and finally he felt the offensive object removed, slumping forward immediately as far as he was able, too weak to hold his head up.

 

Pritchard moved closer twisting his hands into the Gascon’s long hair, pulling his head up until he had no choice but to meet the bandit’s eyes. “You’ll find that I’m a most determined man, but patience is not one of my strong suits. I’ll leave you to consider your situation for a while as I find the continued pain to be an excellent motivator. When I return, I’ll expect you to tell me what I want to know; otherwise I’ll have no choice but to end your life and go in search of your friend.” Placing the tip of the knife against one of the burns, Pritchard slowly pushed until he’d pierced the ravaged skin, blood beginning to flow sluggishly from the small wound. “After the time we’ve spent together, do you really want me to become acquainted with your friend?”

 

Removing the knife, the bandit rose and walked back to the fire pit, leaving d’Artagnan gasping softly for breath as he tried to deal with the unrelenting pain that emanated from the three burns. His chest felt completely raw and the agony of being cut afterwards only intensified the sensation to the point where his vision had begun to darken. He’d been unwilling to pass out while the bandit tortured him, but now the bliss of unconsciousness beckoned him and he closed his eyes, giving into it freely. 

* * *

Aramis had run; he’d pushed his horse to gallop for nearly two miles before the shuddering of the mount beneath him forced him to slow and he allowed the poor beast to walk, the quivering of the animal’s overtaxed muscles shivering up through his thighs. He should feel elated at having escaped but his mind was consumed by only one thought – he’d left d’Artagnan behind. Although he knew it was necessary, he felt only guilt and shame at not having found a way to save the young man from the bandits who’d pursued them. Even though the Gascon had ordered him to go, Aramis could not reconcile the need to complete the mission with the sacrifice of his friend.

 

As the horse walked, he brought a hand to his side, the wound there throbbing angrily with its mistreatment, the pace he’d kept tugging persistently at the stitches that held his skin closed. He deserved the pain he now suffered; it was little enough penance for the sin of having left his brother behind. His hands twisted the reins in his hands while every fibre of his being screamed at him to turn around and find d’Artagnan, but he was torn between his orders and his conscience and nearly paralyzed with indecision. What would the others do, he wondered.

 

_“The mission must be completed, no matter the cost,”_ Athos’ voice, with its low, comforting timbre resonated in his head and he knew his friend was right. As Musketeers, their first duty was to their mission, even if that meant the loss of one of their brothers. Treville was a fine example, after all, having lived for years with the death of twenty men on his conscience after the massacre in Savoy.   

 

_“Family is everything; without family, a man is like a ship cast adrift on the tides, with no tiller and no compass to guide him,”_ Porthos’ soothing tones reminded him and the words resonated with Aramis’ soul. Porthos knew better than most the value of family, having been without one until he’d found the brotherhood of the Musketeers. As a result, the large Musketeer would do anything for any of them, his constancy like the reassuring beacon of a lighthouse in the dark.

 

_“A man without honor is no man at all,”_ d’Artagnan’s naïve face appeared in his mind’s eye, imploring Aramis to allow him an honorable death, in service to his country. For the Gascon, honor was held in high esteem, and the young man would not thank him for wasting his sacrifice by not completing the mission. In fact, he was fairly certain that d’Artagnan would berate him for his foolishness, and the thought almost had the Spaniard concluding that the most prudent choice was to head for Le Havre without a second thought.

 

Aramis groaned, his head throbbing with indecision as he scrubbed a hand angrily across his face. His friends all had their opinions, but he was the one who would have to live with his decision and, ultimately, be judged by God for his actions. He realized that the others would call him a romantic, putting his heart before his head, but he could not help but listen to it imploring him to go after his friend, the fear of the Gascon’s fate twisting his stomach into knots.  

 

Turning the horse to the left, he veered back toward the road that led to Le Havre, expecting that he would intersect with it within a half hour or so. When he reached it, he was surprised to find the muddied track heavily rutted with the hoof prints of multiple horses; his decision had been made for him and he crossed himself quickly with a nod of appreciation toward the skies above. He had many demons from his years of soldiering, but he would not add another this day. Regardless of what the others might think, he could not live with the young man’s death and would do everything in his power to see the boy free. Wishing for his horse to recover faster, he kept an even pace, following the tracks and praying that they would soon lead him to the Gascon.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he managed to get some proper rest, perhaps the morning would look brighter for him, but at this point, with dawn only a handful of hours away, she feared it would be bad news rather than good that would greet the man’s friend in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's been reading along and has been kind enough to comment or leave kudos. Hope you enjoy this next part.

As Aramis followed the road, a thick fog descended, reducing his world to a mere 50 feet around him in every direction. He kept his pace slow, fearful of stumbling across the bandits unaware, listening attentively to every sound around him for any indication of the group’s presence. He was exhausted by the day, having spent too many hours in the saddle and too much time fretting, his nerves frayed and raw with panic and worry. He would have one chance to attempt a rescue – assuming that d’Artagnan still lived – before his body collapsed under the strain of the last few days. Lifting a hand to his eyes, he rubbed gently, trying to relieve the dry, gritty feeling after spending so much time squinting through the haze.  

 

The wound in his side had settled into a steady ache and Aramis willfully did his best to ignore it, fearing that it was either becoming infected or seeping blood once more; he reasoned with himself that there would be time to tend to it after he’d found d’Artagnan. The more rational part of his mind argued that an injured soldier was a danger to his comrades, but the fear he held for his friend pushed him to continue onward, determined to ignore his body’s needs until he was no longer able to do so, even though it was becoming a more difficult task as time wore on. His head had begun to pound in the past hour and he guessed he could attribute that to a combination of stress and lack of sleep. His back and legs ached from so many hours of riding without a break and from the hunched position he’d adopted in deference to his side. All in all, Aramis felt truly awful and looked forward to the opportunity to sleep for days in a nice, warm bed, but his physical comforts would have to wait until he was reunited with his brothers and their mission was complete.

 

When the first low sounds of conversation drifted across the air, Aramis almost dismissed them as figments of his imagination. Three steps further and he was pulling up gently on the reins, anxious to stop his horse without startling it and giving away their presence. There were people up ahead, he was certain of it now, and he would need to proceed with caution lest he give away his only advantage, the element of surprise.

 

He slipped from his horse with far less grace than he normally possessed, the stiffness of his muscles making his movements shaky and abrupt. Biting his lip as he stood beside his mount, he took a moment to gather himself while the slice to his side once more made itself known. When he felt he could move without crying out, he guided the horse away from the sounds he’d heard, moving at a tangent until he discovered the edge of a copse of trees where he tied the animal. Double-checking his weapons, he now carried his harquebus in his left hand, and a knife in his right, recognizing the need for stealth as he approached the men’s camp.

 

It appeared in front of him as he once more followed the voices he’d heard earlier, coalescing from the mist that still hung heavily over everything and now afforded him the benefit of hiding him from his target. There were six of them in all, sitting around the fire in various positions of relaxation, eating a meal. Aramis’ sharp eyes scoured the surrounding area, heart missing a beat as he searched for his missing friend, only to locate him seconds later a further 10 feet away from his captors, tied to a tree. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but the Gascon didn’t seem to be in any worse condition than before. Examining the layout of the camp ahead of him, Aramis decided his best chance lay in circling around and releasing d’Artagnan from behind, hopefully spiriting them both away before the bandits realized.

 

Preparing to move, Aramis aborted the action as three of the men separated themselves from the rest of the group and walked over to speak with the Gascon. From his current location, it was impossible to hear any of what was being said, but a smile graced the Spaniard’s face when he recognized the young man’s defiant demeanor, despite his position on the ground. Settling in to observe and wait for his opportunity to free the young man, Aramis crouched down carefully behind the bushes that now hid him. Whatever conversation the men had was relatively short, one of the men moving away from d’Artagnan and back to the fire as the other two began to beat the Gascon. Aramis winced in sympathy at the blows that were dealt, thankful that the beating was over with fairly quickly, called to a halt when the third man returned.

 

Aramis watched as d’Artagnan turned his head to the side and spit, catching sight of the red liquid that emerged and praying it was a result of a cut lip rather than something more serious. One of the other men now moved back to the fire and the Spaniard kept half his attention on the man while still trying to keep track of what was happening with the Gascon. Aramis’ gaze came up sharply as he caught the glint of steel being lifted out of the fire and his heart clenched in fear at how it might be used against his friend. Several long seconds passed before the knife was handed to the man who Aramis guessed was their leader, and then the bandit was leaning forward, pressing the heated blade to d’Artagnan’s skin, the young man’s body bucking as he tried to get away.

 

The hot steel was removed and d’Artagnan’s head fell to his chest, Aramis looking away as well and biting his lip, anger pooling in his belly at the terrible pain that had just been inflicted on the young man. Turning back toward the group, Aramis watched as the process was repeated twice more, the last time drawing low whimpers of pain and culminating in a loud cry that conveyed the depth of the boy’s suffering. It was all Aramis could do to contain himself and not fire at the Gascon’s tormentor.

 

Finally the men were walking away and he could see that d’Artagnan still lived. He allowed himself a long exhale of relief, reconsidering his next steps; he would still circle around to free the boy, but it would be best to wait until the men were asleep before he did so, allowing his friend some time to recover. Sighing once more, he positioned himself more comfortably, wrapping his cloak around himself tightly against the chilled air as he continued to observe the men’s movements.

 

Luck smiled on them as the bandits did not stay awake long, even though the hour he’d spent sitting in the cold was more than enough to make his bones creak when he pushed himself carefully to his feet. There was only one man left on watch and, without any idea of how often the men traded duties, he wasted no time in repositioning himself behind the tree where the Gascon sat, once he felt certain the others were asleep. When he was in position, he observed the man on guard duty carefully, arguing with himself about whether or not to risk subduing the man and buying them more time to escape. The danger of discovery was great, particularly if he wasn’t able to take the man silently, but the benefit of removing him and hopefully delaying pursuit until morning outweighed the risk. Thus decided, he waited patiently as the man completed his slow circuit of the camp after which, Aramis knew, the man would return to warm himself by the fire. It was at that point that the man would be the most difficult to approach, nearly surrounded by the others and increasing the odds of detection drastically.

 

Inhaling deeply, Aramis prepared to move as the man came within a couple feet of d’Artagnan, performing a cursory examination of the boy each time he passed. Gripping his knife tightly in his right hand, the Spaniard rose silently from the ground, creeping forward when the bandit’s attention was momentarily taken with the Gascon. Within seconds, Aramis’ arm was wrapped tightly around the man, one hand pressed against his mouth to prevent him from crying out as the Musketeer’s other hand pulled the blade across the bandit’s throat. Aramis held the man for a count of five until he was certain that the bandit was incapable of voicing an alarm, then lowered him gently to the ground without a sound. Wiping his knife clean on the bandit’s cloak, he reconfirmed that the others were still asleep before turning his attention to the young man.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he whispered lowly, a hand on the boy’s cheek as he tried to rouse him. Aramis brought the now clean blade to task, slicing through the ropes that bound his friend, catching the young man with one hand as he began to fall forward. “d’Artagnan,” he breathed out again, the boy having startled when he’d begun to shift. Aramis dropped his knife for a moment, placing his other hand on the Gascon’s mouth, afraid the young man might give them away in the moments between sleep and awareness. “d’Artagnan,” he spoke the name a third time, this time seeing recognition shining in his friend’s eyes, bringing a ghost of a smile to Aramis’ face. Removing his hand, he hissed, “Can you stand?”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes flickered toward the campfire as his brain put the pieces together, nodding to Aramis and making motions to stand. Aramis picked up his knife and rose, extending his hand to the Gascon and helping him to his feet. Both men grimaced as the act pulled on their injuries but there was no time to worry about their infirmities now. Aramis turned on his heel and led the boy along the same circuitous route he’d taken before, pausing only to pull the dead bandit further into the underbrush so he wouldn’t immediately be found. It took them a few minutes to make it back to Aramis’ horse and he sent a silent prayer of thanks that his sense of direction had proven correct.

 

d’Artagnan eyed the sole horse and moved closer to talk, “We should go back for my horse.”

 

Aramis looked at him doubtfully, recognizing how lucky they’d been so far, and unwilling to risk anything further. He shook his head, “No, the chance of one of the horses waking the others is too great. We’re better off sharing mine.” He could tell immediately that the Gascon disagreed with him and hurried to try and convince the boy before he ran off and did as he thought best. “d’Artagnan, it’s a miracle that I was able to find and rescue you. Tempting fate by going back there is foolishness.”

 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Aramis wished he could take them back, realizing too late that he’d taken the wrong approach with his friend. d’Artagnan’s expression grew determined as he spoke, only the need for stealth keeping his volume low, “I didn’t want you to rescue me. We need a second horse and I’m going back for mine.”

 

Before Aramis could protest, the Gascon was moving away, slipping silently back into the fog and Aramis was torn between remaining where he was and following. Muttering a curse under his breath, the Spaniard retraced his path and stopped at the edge of the camp, eyes searching for any sign of his friend. Grudgingly he admitted that d’Artagnan was moving cautiously and silently, and he’d only been able to spot the boy because he knew where to look. He caught a glimpse of the Gascon awkwardly placing the saddle on his mount’s back, and a few moments later d’Artagnan was moving away from the other horses with his own in tow. The Spaniard crossed himself in relief, wondering how much more stress he could endure before it became too much. He moved back to his horse, trusting that the Gascon would find him there, and was joined by his friend within a minute.

 

Aramis pulled d’Artagnan out of the way to tighten the girth on the boy’s saddle, having suddenly remembered the young man’s dislocated shoulder. “How did you manage to get the saddle on?” he asked in disbelief.

 

The Gascon gave a cheeky grin as he answered the Spaniard, “Let’s just say I was properly motivated.” Aramis nodded, understanding fully the overwhelming need to be away from this place. With a deep breath, d’Artagnan mounted his horse, keeping his left arm close to his body now that the adrenaline was beginning to wear off, its numbing effects ebbing rapidly to be replaced with a keen ache in the swollen joint. “Let’s go,” the young man said, already nudging his horse into motion and moving back toward the road, or at least where he remembered the road to be. Aramis gave a rueful shake of his head as he mounted and followed, sharing his friend’s desire to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the bandits, as quickly as possible.      

* * *

Madame Fontaine had hoped that the ill man might rest peacefully for a while, his ailing body needing the strength that only a healing sleep could provide, but it was not to be. Athos had woken soon after Porthos had fallen asleep, the larger man’s snores reverberating gently through the room and bringing a smile to the woman’s lips as she was reminded of her late husband. Athos’ return to consciousness was slow and uncomfortable, his head tossing against the discomfort of the heat that burned his body, making him feel like he was freezing instead. When his eyes began to flutter open, he was disoriented, his last memory being of riding with Porthos although he could not recall where or for what purpose. His eyes slowly focused on the woman at his side and he drew a breath to speak, only to have his torturous lungs rebel against him, the inhale starting a round of painful coughs that had him gasping for air.

 

As soon as the coughing had begun, Fontaine pulled him forward to a nearly upright position, recognizing the need for the man to empty his lungs of the congestion that was slowly suffocating him. At the sour look on Athos’ face, she brought a cloth to his mouth and ordered kindly, “Spit.” It was a testament to how poorly the man was feeling that he did so without question. When he’d been lowered gently back against the pillows, Athos blinked fuzzily, licking dry lips in a prelude to speaking. Noticing the action, Fontaine reached for the draught she’d left steeping earlier and brought it to the man’s mouth, encouraging him to drink.

 

The taste was unpleasant but Athos could not deny his body’s thirst and, despite the awful flavor, he managed to drain the cup. “Thank you,” he breathed out when the cup was pulled away. Fontaine smiled at him in reply. Athos rolled his head on the pillows, searching for something familiar to help him identify his location. Not recognizing anything, he turned his gaze back to the woman beside him who sat patiently waiting. “Where?” Each word was agony as he forced air through his raw throat and he hoped that the woman would understand his question.

 

“You are at an inn in Bouquelon. Your friend brought you here seeking medical aid because you are very sick,” Fontaine explained, watching the Musketeer carefully for any indication that the man remembered what had happened.

 

Athos’ eyes rolled as he searched the room, his gaze landing on the other bed as recognition dawned, “Porthos.”

 

“Yes, you gave him quite the scare with how much difficulty you’ve been having breathing,” the woman gave another gentle smile. As though reminded of his illness by Fontaine’s words, another set of wet coughs bubbled forth from the man’s chest, leaving him lying limply against his pillows when he’d finished.

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Athos asked, his voice wrecked and his overheated brain unable to comprehend why he felt so poorly.

 

“Porthos tells me that you spent some time in the Seine and then a night outside in the cold. That is more than enough to make a man sick and now your chest is filling with fluid and your body burns with fever.” Athos nodded at her words, not fully remembering the events that had brought them to this place but agreeing with her assessment of his symptoms. “The tea I gave you should help you sleep and that’s the best thing for you. Close your eyes now and get some rest,” Fontaine ordered kindly.

 

Athos considered disobeying for a moment, having more questions than answers, but the pull of sleep was too great for his weakened body and he dropped off almost immediately. As he slept, the healer stayed at his side, wiping his face and chest with cool water as his fever continued to rise through the night. Fontaine had hoped that the draught she’d given him would begin to help immediately, but it was becoming apparent that the tea had done little other than provide some badly needed hydration.

 

The Musketeer managed a couple hours of restless sleep, beginning to mutter lowly as his body burned hotter and Fontaine prepared another cup of tea for when the man awoke. When she retook her seat, she was surprised to find herself being watched by two half-lidded eyes and she gave her patient a smile. “It’s good to see you awake again. I have more tea ready for you.”

 

As she brought the cup around, preparing to help him drink, Athos’ brow furrowed in confusion as he asked, “Anne?”

 

Madame Fontaine was familiar with her patients’ delirium, a common side-effect of very high fevers, and she simply smiled and shook her head. “No, Anne isn’t here right now but she asked me to take care of you.” Bringing the cup forward, she slipped a hand under Athos’ head so she could help him drink, but the man’s face was now screwed up in confusion and pain.

 

“But….she’s dead,” the words were incredibly weak and hard to understand and, for a moment, the healer thought she must have misheard, but one look at the sorrow etched on the man’s face had her reconsidering.

 

“Then I’m sure she’s in a better place,” she soothed, once more attempting to bring the cup to her patient’s lips.

 

Athos’ eyes drifted upwards to meet hers as he spoke, “Killed her.” His heavy lids closed once more and his face fell lax in sleep as Fontaine pulled both her hands away, replacing the cup on the table beside her. She wasn’t sure what to think of the man’s words but knew the two men were Musketeers, suggesting that violence was a regular part of their lives. The words, however, warred with what she knew of the regiment and conflicted with her instincts that suggested these were good men. Deciding that since no answer was immediately available, she would continue to care for the men until they gave her reason to doubt them.

 

Athos’ next awareness came a scant hour after his delirious words about his wife, having mistaken the feminine voice of the healer for Milady. He opened his eyes to mere slits, not having the energy for more, and recognized the same woman still sitting at his side, leaning over a basin of water as she wet a cloth. He let his eyes slip closed and wondered at how he could ever have confused the two women, his wife never overly nurturing even while they had lived together as husband and wife. In the one instance he could recall taking sick, she had not sat by his bedside, leaving their bedchamber and seeking rest elsewhere until whatever was ailing him had passed.

 

He felt the cool cloth rest momentarily on his brow, the feeling helping to push back the ache that pulsed behind his eyes. Involuntarily, he moaned lowly in appreciation and heard a quiet chuckle beside him. “Awake again, are we?” Fontaine asked, a glint of amusement in her eye.

 

Although Athos had been found out, the idea of opening his eyes seemed overwhelming and he kept them closed as the cloth moved to trace a line across his collarbones and then back up to the hollow of his throat. The sensation made him shiver and brought a frown to his face. “I know you don’t like that very much but your fever is being stubborn.” Athos’ eyebrows lifted momentarily at the woman’s comment but his eyes remained firmly closed.

 

The cloth was removed and he felt a hand underneath his head and he lacked the energy to resist its efforts to lift him further forward, still uninterested as well in the idea of lifting his heavy lids. Moments later a cup was pressed to his lips and he opened obediently to take a swallow of the liquid it held. The flavor was bitter and he pulled back only to find his head held in place by the hand he’d felt earlier. He tried to turn his head away, but the cup followed, insisting that he take more of the foul brew. His desire to get away from the drink finally forced his eyes open to find Madame Fontaine smiling at him, her expression one of amused patience as though dealing with a recalcitrant child.

 

He gave her one of his sternest scowls which only made her smile more broadly as she nudged the cup against his mouth once more, waiting for him to drink. As he kept his lips firmly closed, Fontaine lifted a questioning eyebrow, “I have less trouble with my ten-year old nephew than with you. Surely, you have more courage than him?” Athos’ scowl deepened but he parted his lips, allowing the healer to pour the tea into his mouth.

 

When he’d finished, Athos gave a shudder at the lingering flavor, still glaring at the woman who’d forced him to drink such a vile concoction. Apparently, Fontaine was well-versed in dealing with difficult patients because she merely patted the Musketeer’s shoulder before turning to replace the cup on the table beside her.

 

Realizing that his hard looks were wasted on the woman, and quickly losing energy, he asked, “Porthos?”

 

“He’s fine,” she assured, nodding to where the large man still slept. “Hasn’t made a sound other than that horrific snoring,” she said with another smile.

 

Athos grunted noncommittally, well-versed with his friend’s nighttime noises and oddly comforted by the low rumbling sound, associating it with safety and camaraderie. “He alright?” Athos breathed out, already tiring from the effort it had taken to drink and ask a few brief questions. 

 

Fontaine observed him shrewdly, assessing how much or how little she should share, finally deciding the full truth would be the only thing that would satisfy her patient, the man likely being able to discern if she held anything back. “The worst of it is his broken arm,” she stated. “You did a good job of setting it,” she hazarded a guess and at Athos’ nod, continued. “It’s causing him some pain but he’s doing well otherwise – just tired.”

 

Athos gave a dip of his head in understanding, happy to hear that his battlefield ministrations hadn’t harmed his friend in any way. “You on the other hand are the one causing us all to worry.” Athos tuned back in, belatedly realizing that the healer was still speaking and apparently referring to him. “Has your breathing eased at all?” she asked, motioning to the poultice that lay on his chest, something else that Athos was just noticing for the first time.

 

He considered her question, taking stock of himself as well as he was able, the throbbing in his skull making it difficult to concentrate. Other than that dull ache in his head, his entire body felt heavy and sore, the heat of his fever making him alternately too hot or too cold. His throat felt raw from the numerous bouts of coughing he’d endured, and his stomach muscles felt tender, the pain ratcheting uncomfortably with each convulsion of his lungs. His chest, however, was the worst by far, the pressure he felt there nearly unbearable and causing him to battle for each breath. Even after he’d successfully inhaled, the air he took in was never enough, leaving him perpetually panting for more and feeling both lightheaded and oddly disconnected from the world around him. Lacking the breath and the strength to explain all of this to the healer, he settled for simply answering, “Awful.”

 

Fontaine nodded knowingly, “That’s normal. The poultice should be helping to clear your lungs and the tea will bring your fever down. By tomorrow, I expect you’ll be feeling much better.” Athos gave her a look of disbelief which the healer chose to ignore, understanding how difficult it was for a patient to believe such claims while they felt so poorly. Athos’ lids were beginning to close and Fontaine didn’t try to stop him, watching and waiting as his body’s demands for sleep asserted themselves. When she was certain that he was once more asleep, she allowed herself a slight frown of concern. In truth, she wasn’t certain of her assertions, the fever still holding relatively steady and the man’s breathing incredibly laboured. If he managed to get some proper rest, perhaps the morning would look brighter for him, but at this point, with dawn only a handful of hours away, she feared it would be bad news rather than good that would greet the man’s friend in the morning.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis sat down next to the young man, replacing the cloth that had warmed with the heat of the swollen joint, and then settled down to wait for his turn to sleep, his body reminding him that he was far from healthy himself and the lack of sleep they’d both endured only weakened them further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the great reactions to the last chapter. Hope you enjoy this next one!

They rode through the night, the fog gradually lifting with the first rays of dawn. Both men were exhausted and barely upright in the saddle. d’Artagnan had started out in the lead, guiding them back to the road and then continuing along it, the area around them too firmly entrenched in hazy mist to risk travelling elsewhere. Besides, they reasoned, the bandits would give chase eventually – that was a certainty – and since they knew the Musketeers’ end goal, there was little value to taking anything other than the quickest, most direct route to their destination.  

 

Several hours later, when it became clear that Aramis was flagging, barely able to keep his seat and in danger of falling, d’Artagnan slowed his horse enough for the other man to pull into the lead so the Gascon could keep watch over his friend. He did not feel any better than the Spaniard, but had at least had a bit of sleep after his beating and currently seemed to be the stronger of the two. As d’Artagnan cast a critical eye over his friend, he wondered at the fact that, even after his mistreatment, Aramis seemed to be feeling worse than him. The thought brought a spike of fear to his chest, making him consider that perhaps he’d missed something important and he began to actively look for anywhere they might stop so he could properly examine the man.

 

The shelter they found, if it could even be called that, was the remnants of a handful of hovels. As d’Artagnan eyed the buildings dubiously, he guessed that a number of small families had made an attempt at one point to farm the land around them, but the hard-packed, rocky ground had resisted their efforts, eventually forcing the people to move on or starve. The French countryside was dotted with far more of these abandoned dwellings than he would like to admit and, normally, he wouldn’t give them more than a passing glance; now, they represented brief salvation, allowing them to rest their horses and him the opportunity to check on his friend.

 

The Gascon pulled momentarily into the lead, nudging Aramis’ horse in the direction of the buildings and the well-trained mount obeyed without protest. More worrying than the obedience of Aramis’ horse was the man himself and, as d’Artagnan leaned closer, he could see that the Spaniard’s eyes were practically closed, his face painted with a fine sheen of sweat. “Aramis,” d’Artagnan called, still leaning close to his friend, and he watched as the man managed to partially open his eyes, the effort the act took apparent in the Spaniard’s dazed expression. d’Artagnan pointed ahead of them as they neared the first small house, “We’re going to stop here for a while and let the horses rest. I need to look at your wound, too.”

 

Aramis seemed confused and then lifted a hand, moving it to clumsily touch his side before letting it flop to his lap. The weak and uncoordinated movement made d’Artagnan’s worry ratchet another notch higher and he felt the urgent need to be off the horse and inside so he could properly tend to his friend. Stopping in front of the first building, the Gascon tried to make eye contact with Aramis, but the man’s eyes were nearly closed once more. “Aramis,” he prompted, waiting for the man’s attention, “I’m going to check inside. Wait here.” The Spaniard gave a jerky nod and d’Artagnan slipped carefully out of the saddle, pushing through the doorway of the building to examine it.

 

The inside reflected the same state of disrepair as the outside of the house, but the roof was still intact and the building was dry and cool. Against one wall sat a fireplace, its chimney undamaged, and d’Artagnan took a moment to confirm that it hadn’t collapsed and could safely be used. Heading back outside, he considered the Spaniard, still sitting atop his horse and apparently lacking either the interest or strength to dismount. Grimacing, d’Artagnan wondered how he could help the man down, holding his injured arm close to his chest with the opposite hand. He’d been able to move it a little hours before, but as the swelling in the joint blossomed, he all but lost feeling in his hand and forearm, a fact that worried him immensely but was overshadowed by his concern for the Spaniard.

 

“Aramis,” d’Artagnan called, standing at his horse’s side, his hand now on Aramis’ thigh. Aramis seemed to blink himself to awareness, the sensation of the Gascon’s touch on his leg helping to rouse him from his fugue. He turned his head and looked down, brow furrowing slightly, a sure sign of his continued disorientation. “I need you to get down now. Can you manage it by yourself?” d’Artagnan bit his lip as his friend seemed to consider the question and then began making motions to dismount. Swinging his leg over the horse’s head as was his habit, Aramis wobbled for a moment before regaining his balance and then slid down, swaying a little as his feet touched the ground, d’Artagnan’s hand on his shoulder steadying him. “Let’s get you inside and then I’ll see to the horses,” the Gascon instructed, guiding the man through the doorway with a hand on the Spaniard’s bicep.

 

He settled Aramis close to the fireplace, intending to make a fire, hoping that they could spare an hour or two to rest before heading out again. d’Artagnan recognized the danger in stopping but at this point, feared they had little recourse, either resting now while they were still capable of movement, or falling off their horses later and risking greater injury. Satisfied that Aramis was as comfortable as he could be, sitting on the ground with a wall at his back, d’Artagnan trudged back outside, grabbing their blankets and the saddle bag with Aramis’ medical supplies and dropping them at his friend’s side, before making another trip back to collect a water skin, food and their weapons.

 

All of the activity had him gritting his teeth against the fire that was searing through his shoulder and d’Artagnan knew that he would need to tend to it as well once he’d taken care of the Spaniard. Sitting down awkwardly on his haunches, d’Artagnan placed a hand on Aramis’ leg to get his attention once more. “Aramis, I need to check your wound. Can you remove your cloak and doublet for me?” The sharpshooter again seemed dazed and moved slowly, but he complied with d’Artagnan’s request, clumsy fingers undoing first the ties that held his cloak and then moving to remove his doublet.

 

d’Artagnan watched with sympathy as the garments’ removal brought forth a groan of pain and he wished again for the use of both arms so he could properly help his friend. The Gascon reached a hand forward to tug Aramis’ shirt up and drew a sharp breath at the sight of the red-splotched bandage. “I think you’ve pulled some of the stiches,” he said, catching the Spaniard’s eye.

 

“Hmm,” Aramis hummed, becoming more aware, his attention sharpening as d’Artagnan slipped a knife under the linen that wrapped around his friend’s waist and sliced through it with one stroke. The bandage over the wound slipped free, the blood underneath still damp. d’Artagnan used a portion of the bandage to wipe around the wound and Aramis’ pain spiked, pulling a gasp from his throat as he looked down at his side. “Oh,” he groaned, “I was afraid of that.”

 

d’Artagnan’s head shot up, overjoyed that Aramis had finally spoken, his early quietness almost eerie in its unnaturalness for the outgoing Spaniard. Then, the man’s words registered and the Gascon’s joy turned to anger, “Did you know that you were bleeding?”

 

Aramis gave a slight shrug, “I wasn’t certain but I knew something was wrong.”

 

“Then why didn’t you say something?” d’Artagnan spluttered. “We could have taken care of this hours ago.”

 

Aramis gave him a look that was part compassion and part incredulity and d’Artagnan paused for a moment as he considered his own words. There had been no opportunity to stop earlier and the Gascon understood this, as had Aramis, and that was the real reason his friend had remained silent. Their immediate priority had been to remove themselves from danger and it wouldn’t have mattered how grave the injury – had they stopped to tend a wound, they risked capture or worse. It was a less than ideal situation, but the decision they’d made to travel for as long and far as possible had been the correct one, regardless of the consequences.

 

d’Artagnan dropped his head wearily, acknowledging the naivety of his words and his misplaced anger. “d’Artagnan, it’s alright. There’s no need to feel guilty for doing what we had to do. We’re relatively safe for the moment,” he paused, waiting for a nod of agreement from the Gascon, “so let’s tend to our injuries and rest before we have to move again.”

 

The young man ducked his head in understanding, the exhaustion of the last few days along with the pain of his numerous injuries beginning to wear on him. Breathing deeply, he asked, “Will you be able to clean it and re-do the stitches? I’ve brought in all of the supplies, but…” he trailed off, looking ruefully at his left shoulder.

 

“Is it out of joint again?” Aramis asked, his tone conveying nothing but sympathy.

 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan confirmed. “I landed badly when I fell off my horse and Pritchard didn’t seem to think it important enough to put back.”

 

Aramis’ brow furrowed at the bandit’s name. “Clearly you have information that should be shared. Tell me what you learned while I take care of this,” he motioned to his side. “Your story will help distract me from the pain.” Aramis’ last words were accompanied by a ghost of a smile but d’Artagnan was only too familiar with the pain of having a needle pulled through one’s skin, and knew that his friend was only half-joking.

 

As Aramis cleaned, sewed and, with the Gascon’s help, placed a fresh bandage around his middle, d’Artagnan relayed Pritchard’s origins based on the man’s accent and his desire to secure the package that Aramis carried. The medic repacked his medical supplies as the young man wrapped up his tale and he looked thoughtfully at his friend. “Why did they beat you?”

 

d’Artagnan’s head dropped momentarily in embarrassment that the Spaniard had been a witness to what had happened, “They were trying to get me to tell them the name of the ship we’re meeting.”

 

Aramis’ contemplated the young man’s words, “That means we’ll have some anonymity once we reach Le Havre but also that they will be desperate to catch up with us before we arrive there.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded sullenly in agreement, recognizing that they would have to be back on their horses sooner rather than later and already dreading the reawakening of his various aches, which had now quieted to a dull but manageable roar. Glancing at the cold fireplace, Aramis seemed to come to a decision and he turned back to the Gascon. “We’ll rest here for two hours and then head out again. There’s no use starting a fire since it will just waste the limited time we have available. Let me have a look at your injuries and then we’ll take care of the horses.”

 

“It’s just my shoulder that’s the worst of it,” d’Artagnan began, stopping at the glare he received from his friend.

 

“d’Artagnan, if I’m not mistaken, those men took a hot blade to your flesh. Besides the obvious pain associated with such an injury, burns are notoriously susceptible to infection. They need to be cleaned and bandaged on a regular basis. Now, do you need help with your doublet?” Aramis’ no-nonsense tone left little room for argument and d’Artagnan simply nodded his need for assistance before allowing the man to help him unlace and remove his outer layers of clothing.

 

Aramis hissed in sympathy when the burns and then his swollen shoulder were revealed. d’Artagnan bore the medic’s poking and prodding of the joint stoically, fixing his gaze at a point over the man’s shoulder. “We have to bring the swelling down before I can put your arm back into place.” The young man was unsurprised at this news and gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement. Aramis reached next for a clean cloth and the water skin, meticulously cleaning each of the burns and covering them with linen. “I’m sorry,” Aramis said as he finished, “I don’t have anything with me for the burns but we should be able to buy something when we reach Le Havre.”

 

“It’s fine,” d’Artagnan replied, grateful that the man was done, his ministrations making the pain spike uncomfortably.

 

Aramis wet another cloth and placed it across the Gascon’s misshapen shoulder, causing the young man to shiver at the chill. “We need to keep swapping those out for cold ones in order to reduce the swelling.” He pushed to his feet, using the wall behind him to steady himself, d’Artagnan looking up at him questioningly. “I’ll go see to the horses while you have a bite to eat and then try to rest. I’ll wake you in an hour and we can trade.”

 

d’Artagnan looked ready to argue but then realized the logic of Aramis’ suggestion and reached for the bag that contained their food, pulling out an unappetizing chunk of salted meat. He had little appetite but recognized the necessity of fueling his tired body so he forced himself to have a few bites before washing them down with a healthy portion of water. By the time that Aramis had returned, d’Artagnan had wrapped himself into one of the blankets and his cloak and was snoring softly. Aramis sat down next to the young man, replacing the cloth that had warmed with the heat of the swollen joint, and then settled down to wait for his turn to sleep, his body reminding him that he was far from healthy himself and the lack of sleep they’d both endured only weakened them further.

* * *

Waking up was incredibly unpleasant, the move from blissful sleep to agonizing pain accompanied by a heartfelt moan and he felt a cool hand on his cheek moments later, opening his pain-dulled eyes to see Madame Fontaine standing above him. Wordlessly, she helped him sit up a bit and pressed a cup to his lips, Porthos managing to take it from her partway through and finish the bitter drink, longing for the relief the draught offered against the ache that seemed to be holding his arm in its vicelike grip.

 

“Thanks,” he breathed out when he’d finished drinking, handing the cup back and leaning against his pillows, waiting for the pain to ease. He let his eyes drift closed for only a few seconds before they snapped open once more and he found the healer still standing at his side, apparently expecting his question. “Athos?”

 

The woman gave a short nod as she began to explain, “Still fighting. His breathing is still labored and the fever burns fiercely. I have something back at my house that may help but I wanted to wait until you were awake to sit with him before I left.” Porthos began making motions to sit up immediately and Fontaine pressed him back into the mattress with a hand. “Why don’t you wait a minute for that pain draught to take effect?”

 

The Musketeer nodded and let his body relax. “Will he be alright?” he asked.

 

Fontaine read the need in the man’s eyes but she would not give anyone false hope. “He strikes me as a strong man and a fighter. I believe that with our help it is within his power to recover.”

 

The answer was not as reassuring as Porthos would have liked but he would accept it for now. “Help me up?” He raised his good arm and Fontaine gripped his hand, helping to pull him to a seated position with his legs hanging over the side of the bed. He took a few moments to adjust to the new elevation, the rush of blood to his broken limb sharpening the pain there once more, making him cradle the arm close to his chest as he breathed through the throb.

 

Fontaine stepped back and allowed him the room needed to stand and watched as Porthos walked to the chair where the healer had spent the majority of the night, settling down into it, his hand already reaching to test the heat of the man’s fever. “He’s still really hot,” he said, turning back to the woman.

 

She gave a small nod and a shrug, as if to say I told you so. “If you’re alright to sit with him for a while, I’ll ask Jérôme to bring you up some breakfast and then I’ll go home to get some rest and collect the herbs I need.” At Porthos’ nod, she continued, “I’ll be back this afternoon but don’t hesitate to send for me sooner if his condition worsens.”

 

“Thank you,” Porthos said, trying to convey all the appreciation he had for the woman’s help.

 

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and smiled before heading out through the door, leaving the large Musketeer to tend to his friend. Sadly, there was little he could do other than try to keep the man cool, and he diligently wiped at Athos’ sweat-covered face and chest until Nicolas arrived a short while later with a tray of food. The boy placed the meal on the table next to where Porthos sat and retreated once more, sensing the sombre mood in the room. When the Musketeer finally looked at the tray, a smile touched his lips as he discovered the small cup of broth that had been included for his sick friend.

 

Porthos took the opportunity to eat, his stomach feeling surprisingly empty, and then he turned his attention to Athos, placing a cooled cloth on his neck in an effort to wake the man. “Athos, I need you to open your eyes for me.” The older Musketeer moved his head as if trying to get away from the damp cloth, but Porthos persisted, wetting it again and replacing it as he coaxed his friend to wake. “I need you awake, just for a few minutes, Athos. Let me see those bright, blue eyes of yours.”

 

Athos became aware of a voice calling his name and struggled to place it. His body felt heavy and hot and he felt perpetually short of air, his chest rising and falling more quickly than usual as he tried to draw a deeper breath. He wanted to listen to the voice, but the pull of sleep was so appealing, offering him an escape from his overheated body which made all of him ache and his eyes seem to burn. He heard a low moan and then felt the sound resonate in his chest, realizing belatedly that it came from him. With a supreme effort, he managed to open his eyes, blearily making out the outline of someone at his side.

 

“That’s the way, Athos. Good to have you back,” Porthos encouraged, moving the cloth to wipe at the moisture at his hairline.

 

Athos frowned at his friend’s words, wondering exactly where he’d been. Before he had time to think further, a cup was placed at his lips and he found himself drinking automatically, trusting the disembodied voice beside him, still too disoriented to recognize the man at his bedside. “That’s good, Athos, real good,” Porthos praised him as he pulled the empty cup away. “How are you feelin’?”

 

Athos inhaled, preparing to speak but instead of words he let out only a series of sharp coughs, the strength of which had him wincing in pain as his overtaxed stomach muscles and raw throat suffered with each bark that was forced from his chest. Porthos clapped him firmly on the back as he coughed, even though Athos was not completely aware of his friend’s actions. When the fit had ended, he raised a trembling hand to his chest, swallowing gingerly against the feeling of something having clawed its way up from his lungs and along his tender throat.

 

Porthos observantly caught the motion and reached for a cup of water, lifting it to Athos’ lips and again the man trustingly drank, the cool liquid helping to soothe his ravaged insides. “Better?” the large man asked, watching as Athos seemed to shrink into himself as he sank back into the mound of pillows that supported him. The older Musketeer blinked fuzzily at him as Porthos placed the cup on the table and then gently wiped away the tears that had leaked from Athos’ eyes. “P’thos.” The word was badly slurred and no more than a quiet whisper but it was enough to bring a smile to the larger man’s face.

 

“Yeah, Athos, it’s me. How are you feelin’?” Porthos repeated his earlier question, hoping his friend was aware enough to answer.

 

Swallowing first, Athos breathed out, “awful.”

 

“You’re pretty sick right now but don’t worry, Madame Fontaine’s been takin’ good care of you,” Porthos assured.

 

“Where?” Athos asked, already having forgotten the information the healer had shared with him during the night.

 

“We’re at an inn on the way to Le Havre,” Porthos explained. The answer brought a frown to Athos’ face and the large Musketeer wondered if his friend would be able to recall the events that had led to their current circumstances.

 

“Mission?” Athos finally queried, unable to remember the details of the last few days.

 

“Aye, but it’ll have to wait a couple days until you’re better,” Porthos stated, prepared to physically keep the man in bed if needed, but it was obvious that Athos was not yet well enough to argue. Instead, his eyes began to close and Porthos let them, happy that he’d managed to get some food into his friend even though it was nothing more than a cup of thin broth. Eventually, he would need something far more substantial to recover, but first the illness that gripped him would need to be defeated. Leaning back in his chair, Porthos prepared to watch over his friend until Fontaine rejoined them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the woman had left, Athos turned sorrowful eyes to Porthos once more as he said, “Two days.” That amount of time might not mean much to others, but to men separated from their brothers, two days may as well have been an eternity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the continued support and great response to this story. I had a request from a lovely reviewer to hurry up and post the next chapter so here it is, a little earlier today as a treat for the weekend. Hope you enjoy!

Aramis struggled to wake when his hour of rest was up and he saw the same exhaustion in the Gascon’s face that was likely reflected in his own, the meagre amount of sleep they’d gotten over the past twenty-four hours barely enough to keep them functioning. They repacked their things in silence, neither having the energy needed for conversation and it wasn’t until a half-hour later that d’Artagnan spoke.

 

“We should head south,” he declared, casting his eyes sideways to where his friend rode beside him. Aramis’ eyebrow raised in reply, waiting for the young man to explain. “The bandits will expect us to keep to this road and follow it into Le Havre. If we cut across and meet up with the southerly route, there’s a chance we’ll buy ourselves some extra time and we might even run into the others.”

 

The Spaniard considered the suggestion, the idea of being able to reunite with their brothers and increase their numbers immediately appealing, but also understanding the risk involved by potentially leading the bandits to the others, placing their comrades in danger. d’Artagnan correctly read the hesitant expression on Aramis’ face and he forged ahead in his attempt to convince the man of the soundness of his idea. “Aramis, we can’t continue on the way we have been and our only chance of keeping ahead of Pritchard and his men is to continue driving the horses and ourselves into the ground. How far away do you think we are from Le Havre?”

 

Aramis pictured the map in his mind, calculating the distance remaining from the rough idea he had of their location. “Two days, maybe more at our current pace.”

 

The Gascon nodded, “Exactly. That’s two more days of almost no sleep and needing to watch our backs. Our horses are exhausted and so are we. They’ve had an opportunity to rest and are unhindered by injury. Our best chance of reaching Le Havre is to be somewhere they’re not expecting. Staying on this road means it will simply be a matter of time before we’re caught again.”

 

The sharpshooter bit his lip, the idea of detouring rankling him but there was merit in the Gascon’s suggestion. They would lose some time as they veered from the road; their path would be uncertain since it was difficult to know what lay ahead and they would need to find somewhere to cross the Seine. It was possible, but Aramis disliked the number of unknowns the young man’s plan represented. On the other hand, his yearning to join with the others was powerful and his heart leapt at the thought of having their brothers once more at their sides. The hope of finding Porthos and Athos was too intoxicating to deny, and if they had to fend off another attack, their friends’ blades would be a more than welcome addition. Aramis nodded in support of d’Artagnan’s idea. “Alright, we’ll ride south. But for this to work, we’ll need to make sure we stay ahead of them and that they don’t notice where we’ve detoured from the road.”

 

d’Artagnan grinned at the acceptance of his suggestion and for the next hour, they kept an eye on the road and their surroundings, looking for an opportunity to leave the path they were on. Their chance came when they arrived at well-used intersection of two other roads, and they automatically took the one that would lead them south, following it for a mile or so before leaving it completely behind to take a more direct route over some hard ground where their horses’ footprints would not be found.

 

By unspoken agreement, they continued to ride throughout the day and into late afternoon, keeping the horses to a walk to spare them and themselves as much as possible. Both men were in their own private misery and silence reigned between them once more as each tried to manage their pain and weariness without alarming the other. Aramis recognized that he’d again fallen into a stupor in which his brain felt disconnected from his body. While a portion of his mind realized the danger of having done so, another part revelled in the relief the distance offered, feeling the discomfort of his injury as though through a fog rather than the angry, unrelenting throbbing of earlier. As their day had worn on, he’d begun to feel the dull ache of fever invading his muscles, tightening the cloak more firmly around himself in an effort to retain what little warmth remained in his body.

 

He glanced over to d’Artagnan to see if he’d noticed, but the Gascon was working to contain his own pain, no doubt feeling the effects of his beating and struggling with his still dislocated shoulder. Over the quiet that separated them, he caught the occasional moan and guessed that the young man’s arm continued to tug painfully, regardless of the fact that Aramis had bound it for him before they’d started out. Overall, they made a singularly unimposing pair and could likely be taken down by nothing more than a duo of Red Guards, a perilous situation indeed given the lack of skill and discipline present in Rochefort’s regiment.   

 

As the light began to fade, Aramis recognized the need for them to stop, having come close to falling off his horse several times already and guessing that the Gascon was faring no better if the droop of the man’s shoulders was any indication. “d’Artagnan,” he called to his friend, surprised at how weak his voice sounded. The Gascon turned his head slowly to face him, his face lined with discomfort. “We must find somewhere to stop for the night.” The young man gave a shaky nod through the haze of pain that all but consumed him. Later, they would reflect back on the day’s journey and consider it a miracle that they’d remained undetected, recognizing how quickly they would have fallen to another’s pistol or blade; today, their minds were too clouded by pain and fatigue to do anything more than plod tiredly forward until a suitable shelter presented itself.

 

With evening rapidly approaching, they resigned themselves to a night spent under the stars, praying that the dry weather held since they would be able to find little in the way of protection from the elements. Their shelter ended up being nothing more than a thin grouping of trees, several hundred metres away from the road. The small copse was not even thick enough to risk a fire, for fear that the light would lead those looking for them directly to their camp. They guided their horses around to the side of the trees that was furthest away from the road, reasoning that the animals were unlikely to be spotted against the dark backdrop of the night sky.

 

Aramis was the first to dismount, stumbling badly when his feet touched the ground and needing to wait several long seconds before his dizziness passed and he felt steady enough to stay upright. d’Artagnan had noted the man’s shakiness and drew a deep breath before attempting his own descent, surprised at the weakness in his limbs. He leaned against his horse for a moment, realizing idly that his severe lack of sleep left him feeling oddly similar to when he’d drunk too much wine. Neither man was in any condition to help the other and they traded glances, silently agreeing to carry their own belongings, pulling saddle bags and weapons off the weary animals and carrying them into the rough centre of the group of trees. While d’Artagnan laid out their bedrolls, Aramis returned to the horses, making sure they were tied and had access to the grass at their feet, loosening the girths on their saddles, too tired to remove them altogether. By the time he’d stumbled back to where d’Artagnan sat, Aramis was nearly finished, the last of his energy slipping away like water through a sieve.

 

Aramis immediately laid down on the blanket the Gascon had laid out for him, lying on his uninured side and closing his eyes. d’Artagnan had every intention of joining him, both aware that they needed to keep watch, but neither of them having the strength left to do so. Before the Gascon could rest, he needed to confirm that his friend’s condition hadn’t deteriorated, and he reached a hand over to rest on the Spaniard’s brow. The heat he felt there had him groaning, the sound rousing Aramis momentarily as his eyes fluttered open. “What?” he mumbled to the young man.

 

“You’re hot,” d’Artagnan stated unhappily.

 

Aramis gave a smile that was well short of his usual charming grin, “Nice of you to notice.” His eyes closed again, causing the Gascon to sigh. With his one working arm, he pulled the water skin closer and then rummaged around for a clean cloth. When he had both, he wrestled his way under Aramis’ cloak and doublet, earning an irritated look from his friend, but nothing further. With only one hand, the best d’Artagnan could manage was to pull the bandage down from the wound, exposing the badly inflamed skin underneath. Wetting the cloth, he scrubbed carefully at the wound, earning him another unhappy expression, and then he pulled the bandage back up to recover the ugly slice.

Aramis was fighting an infection and the most d’Artagnan could do for him was a poor cleaning job and a night in the cold. He ran his hand through his lanky hair, feeling an almost overwhelming helplessness as he considered their situation. They were still over a day away from Le Havre, their pace painfully slow and hampered by their own fatigue and that of their horses; in truth, it was a blessing that the animals were still able to carry their weights. Aramis was succumbing to infection and, with nothing available to tend the wound, things were likely to get worse. His own body protested every movement he made and his jaw ached from having it clamped closed all day, forcing himself to swallow the cries of pain that threatened to burst forth as his arm was jostled and the bandages Aramis had placed rubbed against the raw skin of his burns.

 

He’d been missing his brothers since they’d parted ways at the start of their mission, but now, with both of them unwell, he could feel tears of frustration welling in his eyes and breathed deeply against them, unwilling to let them fall. He fisted the hand of his uninjured arm and hit it against the packed earth beneath him, focusing on the sensation to ground him as he squeezed his eyes closed. Inhaling shakily, he allowed his eyes to open, blinking away the moisture and forcing himself to focus. Since having found his place among the Musketeers, he could not recall a time when he’d felt so alone, his soul crying out for the camaraderie of his friends; their support, their guidance, their strength and most importantly their acceptance, something that seemed to have been in short supply in recent months. No, he corrected himself, he was just as much at fault as the others when it came to accepting their shortcomings or, more correctly, Athos’ weakness when it came to his wife and need for drink.

 

The realization had him gasping for air, guilt warring with his loneliness, his brothers’ absence carving a hole in his heart that he knew could not be filled with anything other than their presence and Athos’ forgiveness. Even Constance’s love would not be enough to fill the void. Drawing a slow, cleansing breath, he mentally shook himself from his morose mood. He needed to stay strong, if not for himself then for Aramis, and he moved a few feet away from the man until he could sit with his back against a nearby tree. He’d had no intention of staying awake, his body craving rest as though it were an addictive drug, but he would not let himself falter now that it was clear that Aramis was falling ill. He would do his best to stay awake and watch over the man, and he wrapped his good arm around himself as he shivered in the cold of the night, leaning his head back as he prepared to keep watch. 

* * *

Athos had continued to experience a broken sleep, waking himself frequently gasping for air, his chest constricting painfully as Porthos clapped him on the back in an effort to loosen whatever clogged his lungs. By the time that Madame Fontaine returned, both men were exhausted and in pain, the draught Porthos had drunk having worn off and his arm continuously being jostled as he cared for the older man. When she entered the room, Fontaine perceptively examined her patients, recognizing immediately that Porthos needed another dose of pain relief and that Athos was no better than before she’d left.

 

“Alright Porthos,” she said, as she bustled into the room, placing a bag on the table at Athos’ bedside. “You need to come back to your bed and rest while I get you something more for the pain.” The large man didn’t even protest, the ache in his arm having reached agonizing proportions, making him feel nauseas with its intensity. The healer settled him quickly on the bed, leaving him lying back against the pillows as she mixed the draught for him. She was swiftly back at his side, urging him to drink, and Porthos forced himself to swallow despite the churning of his stomach. “Rest until the pain recedes,” Fontaine ordered, patting the man’s shoulder gently as he breathed carefully through his nose.

 

When she returned to Athos’ side, she frowned at the heat that continued to roll of the ill man in waves, and she was certain that his temperature had risen. His complexion was waxen and pale and his breaths stuttered loudly in and out of his chest. She pulled a small vial from her bag, unstopping it and placing two drops into a cup of water on the table. Turning to the ill man, she worked to wake him, needing him to drink the medicine she’d brought as quickly as possible. “Monsieur Athos, you must open your eyes for me.” She placed her cool hand on his cheek as she tried to rouse him. It took several attempts but her persistence was finally rewarded with two fever bright blue eyes. Leaning closer so she was in his line of sight she said, “I’ve brought some medicine that you need to drink.” Unsurprised by his lack of response, the healer reached for the cup and raised it to his lips, waiting until his mouth opened and then tipping the contents slowly so he could drink.   

 

The simple act seemed to drain his energy and his eyes slipped closed once more, Fontaine patting his arm gently as she watched him drift back to sleep. She’d seen the empty broth cup earlier and was pleased that he’d at least managed something light, but it would be important that they got something more into him soon, before his body became too weak to fight the infection in his lungs. The next couple of hours passed in relative quiet, Athos resting more comfortably with the medicine he’d consumed, and Porthos falling asleep once the ache in his arm had eased.

 

It was dinnertime before the large Musketeer awoke. He lay quietly on the bed, blinking fuzzily up at the unfamiliar ceiling and recognizing the bitter aftertaste on his tongue from the medicine he’d drunk. He needed to check on Athos but it was difficult to find the motivation to move from his bed, the stresses of the previous days catching up with him in full force now that he’d had a chance to slow down and rest. Even though he’d just woken, he could feel Morpheus tugging at him, encouraging his eyes to close and to drift back to sleep. He rolled carefully to his side, bracing his broken arm, not wanting the ache to reach the proportions it had earlier. Achieving an upright position, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and noted that Madame Fontaine was wiping Athos’ skin with a cloth, likely to keep his temperature down. Athos was trembling under her ministrations and Porthos grimaced in sympathy, understanding well how one’s body felt cold when gripped by fever.

 

He shuffled slowly to the healer’s side, looking more closely at his friend and not liking what he saw. “Is he any better?” he asked, already preparing himself for bad news.

 

Fontaine looked up at him and smiled, “Actually, yes.” Porthos’ eyebrows rose in surprise and the healer explained, “His fever is a little lower than before and he’s been resting more easily since I gave him the other medicine I brought. We’ll need to wake him soon so he can eat, and the hardest thing will be to encourage him to cough so he can clear his lungs.”

 

The news was more than welcome, and for the first time since their ordeal had begun, Porthos began to believe that things might turn out alright. Fontaine dropped the cloth she’d been using back into the basin of water and rose from her seat, offering it to the Musketeer. “I’m going to see if we can have some dinner brought up and then you can help me get some more broth into your friend.”

 

Porthos gave a nod as he sat in the vacated chair, placing a hand on Athos’ brow to check his temperature. The man didn’t feel overly cool to him but he trusted the healer and if she thought Athos’ fever was improving, Porthos believed her. Fontaine returned a half hour later and the two ate together, the healer sharing with the Musketeer some of the more interesting stories of village life while encouraging the large man to eat as much as he could. She recognized that he’d likely eaten poorly until arriving in town and was determined to feed him well while he was under her care.

 

When they’d eaten their fill, they went about waking the older man, an exercise that was accompanied by long bouts of painful sounding coughs, but which only made Fontaine smile in approval, reminding Porthos that coughing cleared the lungs. The large Musketeer wasn’t convinced but grudgingly agreed that Athos seemed to breathe a little easier afterwards. Broth was followed by another dose of medicine and a new poultice for his chest, the strong scent permeating through the room. By the time they’d finished tending to Athos, Porthos was yawning widely once more and he was chivvied back to bed by the diminutive healer. “Your body needs the rest in order for your bones to knit. Don’t fight it, just enjoy it while you can.” Porthos nodded tiredly and retired to his bed, surprising himself by sleeping through the night.

 

When morning arrived, he sat up in bed, appreciatively noting that he felt significantly better than he had the day before, even the ache in his arm dulling to a less vocal throb. Fontaine still sat at Athos’ bedside and when he joined her, he was pleasantly surprised to see Athos awake, his eyes clearer than they had been in days.

 

"Athos," Porthos sat on the side of the bed, placing his hand on the man’s forearm, “it’s good to see you awake.”

 

“Feels good to be awake,” Athos replied, his voice low and hoarse, his throat wrecked from days of painful coughing.

 

“Your friend was just telling me that you were on a mission and that you’d be leaving today,” Fontaine said, giving Porthos a look that begged him to disagree.

 

The large man interpreted her expression correctly and addressed his response directly to her, “Is he well enough to travel?”

 

“Yes,” Athos wheezed but he was quickly overruled by the healer’s voice.

 

“No. His fever is lower but his body is still weak from its effects. Leaving today would be an almost certain death sentence,” Fontaine declared, her tone conveying the seriousness of the man’s condition.

 

“I’m fine,” Athos countered, the words immediately followed by a bout of harsh coughs that had him panting afterwards as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Athos,” Porthos began, his tone conciliatory, “we’re not going anywhere today. I brought you here to save your life. I won’t throw it away now because you’re antsy to get back on the road.”

 

“But, the mission…” Athos trailed off, not having enough air in his chest to continue, but the large Musketeer understood what he was trying to say.

 

“I’m sure they’re alright, Athos, and will be waiting for us at the inn where we agreed to meet,” Porthos placated, trying to ease the man’s fears about their friends. He would not vocalize right now that he shared the man’s concerns, not while Athos was determined to get out of bed before he was ready.

 

“How long?” the older man croaked, slumping back against the pillows.

 

“Two days,” Porthos answered. They had lost two days as a result of Athos’ untimely swim, and would lose at least one more to give the older man enough time to recover from his illness.

 

“Two days,” Athos repeated quietly and Porthos knew the information was only fueling his friend’s concern.

 

“Athos, we’ll be able to travel faster once you’re feelin’ better. In the end, one more day in bed won’t make any difference,” Porthos consoled, his eyes pleading with the man to agree with him.

 

Athos sat silently for several long moments, his breathing sounding exceptionally loud in the stillness that surrounded them. Finally, he gave a short nod and Porthos returned it, knowing he’d won his concession of one additional day but it was tied to a promise that they would move quickly once back on the road. Porthos squeezed his friend’s arm, turning to Madame Fontaine. “We’ll be stayin’ one more day.”

 

Fontaine smiled widely in relief, recognizing how difficult it had been to convince the older man. “I’m pleased to hear it. If you’re alright to stay up for a while, I’ll have breakfast sent up and then go home to rest again.”

 

Porthos was already nodding in agreement before the healer had even finished speaking, grateful for the amount of time she’d spent at Athos’ side. When the woman had left, Athos turned sorrowful eyes to Porthos once more as he said, “Two days.” That amount of time might not mean much to others, but to men separated from their brothers, two days may as well have been an eternity.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d allowed too much time to pass, treating each other worse than strangers; when they were reunited, they would find a way to behave as brothers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's continuing to read, comment and leave kudos. I hope you enjoy this next chapter.

The night had been nothing short of purgatory, the lack of fire accompanied by the drop in temperature and dew covering everything in sight left the Musketeers cold and miserable. Aramis had at least managed to sleep, his body’s exhaustion too much for even their harsh surroundings to overcome and d’Artagnan prayed that the rest would help the man fight the infection that had taken hold in his wound. He had spent the long evening hours intermittently dozing before startling himself awake, only to sit up and stare into nothingness as he sat shivering, doing his best to stay aware and watch out for his sleeping friend. He’d experienced weariness in the past, the life of a soldier often requiring hours of diligence, or possibly boredom, interspersed with hours on horseback; but never could he remember a time when he’d been awake for so long, been required to be alert without rest for so many hours in a row, that his eyes no longer focussed and his head felt lightheaded from fatigue.

 

He’d come aware when his head dropped to his chest for the umpteenth time that night, and he was grateful to see the lightening sky, heralding the arrival of a new day. Dawn’s approach meant an end to his lonely vigil, offering the promise of movement and possibly conversation to help him fight off the exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm him every second that he remained sitting. With a great deal more effort than he cared to admit, the Gascon managed to roll to one side and then onto his knees so he could crawl to his friend’s side, currently lacking the coordination to rise to his feet. With a hand on the man’s shoulder, he roused the sharpshooter, “Aramis, it’s morning. Wake up.”

 

Aramis was understandably unmotivated to open his eyes, awareness bringing with it the discomfort of the previous day’s fever and the dull ache in his side. Despite that, the tone in his friend’s voice implored him to wake and he grudgingly opened his eyes, blinking tiredly at the trees that surrounded them. He’d slept on his side, curled tightly to preserve what little warmth his body possessed, unaware that he’d actually been quite hot with fever and only felt like he was cold. Now, he found himself quite comfortable and was surprised to find himself underneath a pile of blankets, the Gascon obviously having covered him with nearly everything they carried with them.

 

He rolled slowly onto his back and squinted up at d’Artagnan who still sat next to him, waiting as he gathered his wits about him. Although the light was still poor, the sight that greeted his eyes did not bring him much confidence, the young man looking haggard and gaunt, dark circles etched beneath both eyes. “d’Artagnan, did you get any sleep last night?”

 

The Gascon bit his lip as he considered his answer and Aramis immediately decided to disregard anything the boy said, the mannerism an obvious tell and a more truthful answer to his question than what the young man might offer. “You didn’t sleep, did you?” Aramis tried to keep the accusatory tone from his words but could see that he’d failed miserably when the young man winced. “d’Artagnan,” Aramis softened his tone, “was it your wounds?”

 

The Gascon jerked in surprise, rushing to assure his friend that it wasn’t injury that had kept him awake, but duty. “No, Aramis, no,” he repeated, unsure of how to proceed. “I was worried…about you. Last night, you were so hot and I know we were both exhausted, but I couldn’t risk Pritchard’s men taking us by surprise. I stayed up to keep watch.”

 

Aramis’ expression was a mix of gratitude and despair, appreciating the young man’s selfless act but recognizing how much it must have cost him to stand guard all night. d’Artagnan sat waiting for the medic’s reaction, hoping his friend wouldn’t be too upset, and shivered involuntarily, the dampness of morning seeming to chill him to his core. Aramis’ eyes narrowed when he noticed, and his eyes returned to the pile of coverings that he’d slept beneath, realizing that the Gascon had likely gone without anything more than the blanket that still sat around his shoulders.

 

“Help me up,” he grunted, doing his best to dig his way out of everything, d’Artagnan helping by pulling some of the covers away. Aramis pushed himself up to a seated position, hand landing momentarily on his wound to confirm that the slice was still tender. Before he could stop it, d’Artagnan’s hand was on his forehead and Aramis scowled at his friend in response.

 

The Gascon was nonplussed and simply pulled his hand away after a few seconds, stating, “Better than last night, but you’re still warm.”

 

Aramis grunted but didn’t dispute the claim, feeling the familiar flush of fever and knowing that his wound was still infected. “I’m going to go…” he trailed off, hand waving generally in the direction of the trees, indicating his intention to take care of his morning needs. d’Artagnan nodded, deciding to do the same but as he attempted to rise, the light-headedness returned and he found himself back on his knees, barely holding himself up with one shaky arm.

 

Aramis was leaning over him a second later, hand on his shoulder as he spoke, “d’Artagnan, what happened? Are you alright?”

 

“Just a little dizzy,” d’Artagnan mumbled, head still hanging low between his shoulder blades.

 

Aramis gripped him by both arms to help him ease to a sitting position, only to have the Gascon hiss in pain and jerk away from his grasp. The medic pulled his hands away as if burned, horrified that he’d forgotten about the young man’s still dislocated arm. In the act of pulling away, d’Artagnan had fallen to sit on his side, hand cradling his injured arm to his chest as he tried to curl over the limb. “d’Artagnan,” the medic spoke soothingly, “I’m so sorry. Are you alright?”

 

Clearly the young man was far from alright, his eyes squeezed tightly closed and Aramis could see the convulsive swallowing that signalled an agony so great that the Gascon felt sick to his stomach. After nearly a minute, d’Artagnan prised his eyes open, shuddering breaths beginning to even out again and he gave a shaky nod. “S’Alright,” he managed, still looking pale with pain.

 

“You need to let me look at that shoulder,” Aramis stated, hoping that the young man would not argue with him. The joint had been terribly swollen the previous day and he knew that their care of it since then had been lacking, but the arm would need to be put back soon to avoid risk of permanent damage.

 

d’Artagnan drew several steadying breaths before he agreed, “Alright, you can look now.”

 

Aramis did all of the work, pulling back the layers that d’Artagnan wore, the medic cursing to himself again as he recognized how cold the night must have been for the young man. By the time he’d helped the Gascon slip his arm out his doublet sleeve, d’Artagnan was trembling in pain, sweat dotting his brow despite the cold air around them. The medic tugged at the collar of the boy’s shirt, exposing the grotesquely swollen joint and Aramis tugged at his beard as he considered what to do.

 

“Please, Aramis, you’ve got to put it back.” Aramis raised his eyes from the young man’s shoulder to his face, uncertain how to respond. “Aramis, please.” d’Artagnan swallowed against his churning stomach once more. “It’s been too long, you know it has.”

 

Aramis shook his head as he replied, “I’m not sure if will go back in. We should have been more diligent about wrapping it in cold cloths…”

 

d’Artagnan interrupted him as he was wracked with another violent shiver, “Trust me, Aramis, I couldn’t be much colder than I am right now. It has to be enough.”

 

The pleading tone made Aramis nod, “This will be extremely unpleasant.”

 

The medic’s understatement brought a bark of laughter from the Gascon, “Aramis, it was _unpleasant_ the first time you fixed it. I expect this experience will be ten times worse.”

 

Aramis gave a soft smile as he agreed, “Well, as long as you know what to expect.”

 

The medic helped d’Artagnan lay down on the ground, concerned that the boy would be unable to hold himself upright once he began to manipulate the arm. With a final look to the young man, he began, focusing on the tension and resistance he felt in the shoulder joint rather than the gasps of pain that d’Artagnan was unable to contain. He persisted for over a minute, the arm stubbornly refusing to pop into place. Aramis paused, holding the limb in his hands, and after several seconds, d’Artagnan opened his eyes, blinking away the tears that sat there. “What?” he croaked, wondering why his friend had stopped.

 

Aramis’ expression conveyed the anguish he felt at causing the Gascon pain as well as his frustration at not having been able to relocate the arm. “It’s not working,” he said quietly, hoping that the young man would release him from his promise and allow him to stop trying.

 

“Try again,” d’Artagnan gritted out between clenched teeth, the fire in his damaged joint increasing with every second that passed. “Please,” he gasped, eyes closing again.

 

Aramis gave a nod that the Gascon missed and he tried once more, pushing more forcefully against the damaged muscles that prevented the arm from shifting back into place. With a final powerful push as he rotated the arm, he felt it grudgingly slip into place, a strangled shout spilling from the young man’s chest as it did. Aramis bent the arm at the elbow and laid it gently across d’Artagnan’s chest, releasing it and sitting back while the young man heaved breaths as he tried to cope with the pain. The tears that had glistened in his eyes were now streaming down his cheeks, and Aramis watched them sorrowfully as they traced a path through the dirt on his face from the last several days.

 

After several minutes, the Gascon’s breaths slowed and he’d moved his good hand to hold the wrist of his injured arm, stabilizing it until it could be bound. “I’m sorry, d’Artagnan,” the medic said once he was certain his words would penetrate the haze of agony that had engulfed the young man.

 

d’Artagnan looked at him through half-slitted eyes as he slurred, “S’alright, needed to be done.”

 

Aramis nodded, “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t feel bad about causing you pain.”

 

The Gascon’s lips quirked with humour, “Aramis, you feel for your patients more strongly than anyone I’ve ever met, but you’ll have to trust me when I say that the pain you caused was well worth the relief I now feel.”

 

The words brought a faint smile to the medic’s face and he clasped a hand lightly on the young man’s uninjured shoulder. “Are you ready to sit up so I can bind that for you?”

 

The thought of moving brought an unwelcome lurch to d’Artagnan’s belly but he nodded regardless, doing his best to roll his upper body upwards as Aramis grasped his good arm and pulled. Aramis helped d’Artagnan into his doublet, neither of them willing to have the arm restrained underneath the piece of outerwear, lest he need to use it at some point. The medic’s sash was again relegated to being a makeshift sling, Aramis wrapping its length underneath the Gascon’s arm and then both around his shoulder and his waist so the limb was supported in two directions.

 

As he admired Aramis’ handiwork, d’Artagnan shook his head with a rueful grin, “Quite the pair, aren’t we?”

 

Aramis gave a cheeky grin in return, “Not sure what you mean. I’m still a dashing Musketeer, despite being a bit worse for wear.”

 

The Gascon had no reply and only grinned more widely, welcoming the brief bit of humour given the difficult days they’d endured. “Shall we?” Aramis asked, having risen and now extending a hand to his friend. d’Artagnan grasped it gratefully and was pulled to his feet, the two men maintaining their grip for several seconds afterwards, drawing strength from each other as they prepared to face another challenging day. When they let go, they moved towards the trees together, shoulders bumping occasionally from the close proximity they maintained.  

* * *

Their day had an almost leisurely quality to it and they might have described it as pleasant were it not for the reality that the hours spent at the inn added to the time that separated them from their brothers; that and the fact that both men were nursing serious injuries that could have been life-threatening if left untreated. Athos continued to cough throughout the day, slipping into sleep frequently as he battled a low-grade fever and the exhaustion that accompanied severe illness. Porthos took advantage of the time as well, helping the older man through his coughing fits and taking advantage to eat or rest when his friend was dozing.

 

When Madame Fontaine returned late that afternoon, she was pleased with the condition of both men and elicited a promise from them to take their medicine, eat a hearty meal and rest as much as they could before they departed. With little more to be done, she left them a short while later, promising to make arrangements for dinner to be delivered to their room, stating that she would return the following morning to check on them before they left. Dinner was eaten at Athos’ bed, the older man only getting up when he needed the chamber pot but otherwise using every minute to regain his strength. Porthos sat on a chair at his side and passed him bread and a small amount of stew before helping himself.

 

As they ate, Porthos broached the subject that had been weighing heavily on his mind, even more so now that he worried for their absent comrades. “You ever wonder what’s happened between the four of us?” Athos seemed surprised by the question as he looked up from his bowl of stew, and he waited for his friend to continue. “I mean, there was a time we would do anything for each other but now it’s like we can’t wait to be apart.” Athos chewed slowly, uncomfortable that the other man had brought up the discord between them. Porthos sighed as he said, “I never had any proper friends like you and Aramis when I was growin’ up,” he stated wistfully. “Is this what happens over time? Do friends just eventually grow apart?”

 

It was clear that Porthos was struggling with the strain between them and was looking for reassurance – the one thing Athos was uncertain he could provide. Although his upbringing had been nearly the exact opposite in every way to the larger man’s, he also couldn’t recall ever having friends who were as dear to him as the other inseparables, nor ones whose acquaintance had lasted as long. Carefully clearing his throat, he replied, “I have never been fortunate to have friends such as you in the past, but I know others who relate stories of lifelong friendships, suggesting it is possible.”

 

Porthos nodded thoughtfully, recalling Treville’s joy at being reunited with General DeFoix, a man who he’d known since his early days of soldiering. Taking another bite of stew, he was silent until he’d swallowed and then offered another question. “Do you think it’s the secrets that are gettin’ in the way?”

 

Athos nearly choked on the bite of food in his mouth and Porthos thumped his back soundly as he coughed, painfully clearing his airway. The large man helped him with a drink of water as Athos cursed his friend’s perceptiveness, having instinctively recognized that there was something unspoken between them which was the source of at least some of the tension.

 

As he controlled his breathing, not wanting to suffer from another bout of coughs, Athos reflected that he shouldn’t be surprised at Porthos’ instincts. The man had grown up in the Court of Miracles where the ability to size up a person and correctly read their intentions was practically a prerequisite for survival. That he would have noticed the strain between himself and Aramis, and then the way in which the sharpshooter had progressively distanced himself from them, should come as no surprise. Throat still raspy from his most recent fit, he offered a neutral reply, “Secrets have a way of creating a wedge between those who were once most intimate.”

 

Porthos nodded in sympathy and Athos realized that his words accurately described the situation between himself and Milady, and it was possible that the large man believed it was those circumstances to which he now referred. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at potentially misleading his friend before remembering that the secret that existed between himself and Aramis was not his for the sharing, regardless of what Porthos might sense. The large man then surprised him further, but Athos’ mouth was empty, saving him from another episode of choking, “I figured you wouldn’t say, but I’m warnin’ you now, whatever this is between you two, I plan to get to the bottom of it when I see Aramis next.”

 

Athos swallowed carefully and considered the conviction in his friend’s expression before offering a slow nod. Perhaps Porthos was correct and they’d allowed things to go on too long, needing something drastic such as their current separation and fear for the others to remind them of what was truly important. After all, Athos reflected, despite everything that had happened, he would still happily sacrifice his life for the others and was certain of their willingness to do the same. In danger, they still acted as brothers and it was their peacetime relations that needed to change. Surely men who felt such devotion for one another could find their way back from the despair they’d succumbed to in the past months - couldn’t they?

 

Porthos was staring at him and Athos gave an embarrassed quirk of his lips, nodding again but this time with greater confidence. He would support his friend’s plan. They’d allowed too much time to pass, treating each other worse than strangers; when they were reunited, they would find a way to behave as brothers once more.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos had thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him, the men up ahead appearing somewhere they weren’t supposed to be and his mind struggled to realize that the sight before him wasn’t a figment of his fever-addled brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for everyone who's been patiently waiting for our boys to be reunited. Enjoy!

Aramis had managed to clean and redress his wound before they’d left their makeshift camp, allowing d’Artagnan a few minutes to doze while he waited for the man. In truth, the medic had taken his time, checking over the horses and having a small amount of food from their rapidly dwindling provisions before he’d regretfully woken the boy almost an hour later. The Gascon’s limbs were still heavy with fatigue and he moved through the motions of packing up and mounting his horse more through ingrained memory than anything else. Given the young man’s state, Aramis decided to keep to himself the fact that the slice on his side was still inflamed with infection, and his body was once more beginning to feel the effects of his rising temperature. The only positive was that Aramis had applied a salve from his medical supplies to the length of the cut, something that the young man had earlier overlooked when he’d searched through the bag.

 

As they rode, the sun moved ever higher into the sky, helping to burn off the chill of the night. Aramis tipped his face to the warmth it provided, stifling a shiver that had nothing to do with the air around them. He knew his body’s limits well, a skill that had been acquired through necessity as a soldier. In his current state, he’d be able to keep his seat and probably make it through the day, but he would be useless come nightfall, leaving the Gascon to remain on watch once more. The alternative was to stop and rest several times throughout the day, replenishing his dwindling energy reserves and enabling him to share the evening’s duties with his friend. While the latter option sounded the more reasonable of the two, it was also the one that carried the greater risk, increasing the chances that Pritchard and his men would catch up with them and attack.

 

Aramis knew he should discuss the situation with d’Artagnan, but he was loathe to make the boy choose, already feeling guilty at the man’s current state which was in large part due to his decision to remain awake through the night. If presented with the two options, he was confident that the Gascon would advocate for the first, sacrificing another night of rest to keep them both safe. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose at the dilemma he faced. As if hearing his thoughts, d’Artagnan turned his head in Aramis’ direction, a pensive look on his face. “If you can manage it, I think we should ride throughout the day.” At the look of surprise on the medic’s face, the young man continued, “We won’t make it to Le Havre today, but it will put us close enough that we’ll arrive by mid-afternoon tomorrow. Besides, it can’t hurt to put more distance between us and anyone who might be following.”

 

They’d kept watch as diligently as possible for any signs of pursuit, but to this point had seen no one behind them. It was possible that Pritchard had been fooled by their departure from the other road, but something in Aramis’ gut told him that they hadn’t seen the last of the man. “d’Artagnan, if we ride all day, I’m afraid I won’t be much help tonight,” Aramis began, only to be interrupted by the Gascon.

 

“I know and it’s alright,” d’Artagnan soothed. “I’m guessing that wound’s still infected and you’re not feeling nearly half as well as you’d like me to believe. I can manage one more night knowing that tomorrow I’ll be sleeping in a warm bed with a roof over my head.”

 

Aramis’ lips quirked with amusement as he gently shook his head, “And just when did you become this perceptive, my friend?”

 

The Gascon snorted as he replied, “Not perceptive, Aramis, you’re predictable.” At the look of mock horror on his friend’s face, the young man continued, “You’re never honest about how you feel when you’re sick or hurt so we’ve had to get better at reading the signs.”

 

Aramis’ smile slipped for a moment as he recalled Porthos telling him something similar when they’d first begun soldiering together. Despite his unwillingness to admit how truly awful he felt, the large Musketeer had known anyway and cared for him with a tenderness that was at odds with the man’s size and gregarious nature. The change in his expression must not have gone unnoticed, because he suddenly found d’Artagnan’s hand on his arm, the young man’s reins lying discarded across the neck of his horse, “Aramis, are you alright?”

 

The medic raised his eyes to the concerned face of his friend and nodded, trying to resurrect the smile he’d worn moments before, but failing poorly. Giving up the pretense, he sighed again as he explained, “I was just thinking about Porthos. He said the same thing to me once, early in our friendship.”

 

The comment brought a faint grin to d’Artagnan’s face as he asked, “How long have the two of you been friends?”

 

Aramis gave a one-sided shrug as he mentally tallied the years, “Seven, eight years…” He trailed off again as he struggled to remember a time before Porthos’ friendship. That time existed, of course, having grown up away from Paris and then soldiered for a time before joining the Musketeers, but it was not until he’d joined Treville’s regiment that he’d truly come alive, feeling like he’d found his true calling and stopped questioning his decision to turn away from the church. Porthos had been commissioned soon after Aramis and the two, while not immediate friends, had been drawn to each other quickly. As such, he considered Porthos his oldest and dearest friend, a man who he was proud to call brother and someone he would gladly forfeit his life for. As the thought emerged at the forefront of his mind, his heart skipped a beat at how poorly he’d treated his so-called best friend.

 

When things had come to a head with Anne, precipitated by the birth of their son, he’d been consumed with thoughts only of them. The fact that he would often get to see the two when on duty at the palace only extended his anguish, placing that which he longed for most within sight while still out of reach. As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, he’d grown distant, focused only on finding more precious moments when he might catch a glimpse of the Queen or be able to brush his fingers along the soft, smooth skin of his son’s cheek. Athos had disapproved and Aramis had resented him for it, although he knew that the older man’s sentiment stemmed from worry, not for himself but for Aramis. The fact that Athos’ concern was selfless only infuriated the medic further, enhancing the guilt and shame he carried for having slept with the Queen. The result was a widening rift between the two, which had led him to turn his back on Porthos as well, and he still remembered the look of hurt on Porthos’ face when he’d declined the man’s support.

 

Drawing a deep breath, Aramis realized he’d been silent for quite a while, d’Artagnan having waited patiently beside him until he was ready to continue. “Porthos is my oldest friend, almost since the time we both joined the regiment.” His voice wavered a bit as he said, “I cannot imagine my life without him at my side.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded solemnly, understanding the depth of feeling beneath the Spaniard’s words. He steeled himself for several seconds before he said, “The, maybe you should start acting like it.”

 

Aramis was stunned by the Gascon’s comment, pulling away from him slightly even though there was only so far he could go while on horseback. His eyes blazed as he prepared his retort, “I’m certain I don’t know to what you’re referring. I would willingly give up my life for his.”

 

The Gascon’s expression turned sad as he said, “I know that, Aramis, and I’m sure he does as well. The more important question is, do you love him enough to share your secret with him? In comparison, dying seems the cowardly way out.”

 

Aramis’ face blanched and his voice caught in his throat, shocked that d’Artagnan would refer to his secret and his mind raced as he wondered at what the boy knew. When the silence between them stretched, the Gascon nudged his horse forward, leaving the medic riding behind him and alone with his thoughts.

 

It hadn’t been d’Artagnan’s goal to cause the medic distress, but Aramis’ comment about the length of their friendship had stirred his ire and the harsh words had left his mouth before conscious thought could curtail them. Once voiced, he found himself oddly satisfied at having broached the topic, recognizing that his resolution to address things with Athos was only one aspect of what needed to be fixed in order for the four of them to move forward. He knew, as Porthos did, that Athos and Aramis kept something from them, and d’Artagnan had been satisfied to let them have their secret as long as it didn’t affect their friendship. The past months made it obvious that ignorance was no longer an option, and whatever the two men hid would need to see the light of day if their friendships were to heal and strengthen once more.

 

He hoped that Aramis would forgive him for what he’d said, not looking forward to having to make amends with two friends instead of one, but he didn’t regret speaking out. They had been pretending that everything was alright for too long, their real feelings masked as harmless joking, words that no longer carried humour but were edged with sharpness and bit into a man’s soul when unleashed. The effect was slower, but no less lethal, chipping away at the bonds they’d forged and inevitably bringing them to the same conclusion – the end of their brotherhood. This was not an acceptable outcome for the Gascon, and he would rail against it with his last breath, needing to know he’d at least done everything within his power to prevent it. He turned awkwardly in his seat to look back at his friend, sorry to see the anguish in the medic’s face, but gladdened that perhaps it would make the man stop and think, and perhaps help him find his way back to them again. He turned his attention forward and settled into his saddle for what would be a very long day’s ride.

* * *

They’d remained true to their word and had done everything Madame Fontaine had asked, waking early the following morning feeling far more human for their efforts. Athos was still weak and coughed frequently, but the intensity had lessened even though he still found himself short of breath afterwards. Porthos was dealing with the lingering pain of his broken arm, but the bone had begun to knit back together and with the pain relief that Fontaine had brought, he’d be able to manage the ride to Le Havre with minimal discomfort.

 

The woman had looked upon both of them fondly as she’d walked them outside, repeating her instructions one more time before pressing the bottles of medicine on Athos and then embracing him in a hug that had the man uncomfortably glancing to his friend for help. When he’d been released, the healer turned her attention to Porthos and the large Musketeer thanked her profusely for her help and returned her hug with his one working arm. Once she’d bid them goodbye, they found themselves facing the innkeeper and his son, the latter holding the reins of their horse which had already been saddled, their bags hanging off each side and stuffed with food and wine from Gagnon’s cellar. Another round of thanks passed between them, the innkeeper refusing payment in gratitude for the past acts of another Musketeer, and Athos only managed to press a handful of coins on the youngster in exchange for the care he’d shown their mount.

 

When they were both seated and the town sat at their backs, Porthos turned his head to speak to Athos who sat behind him, “How far do you think?”

 

It was the question that had consumed Athos’ thoughts since he’d agreed to spend another day at the inn and he now frowned as he said, “We’ll probably arrive late tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Porthos gave a short not, Athos’ estimate consistent with his own. “It’ll be good to see them.” Athos was quiet but Porthos was certain the man felt the same.

 

They kept their pace to a walk, minimizing the strain on their horse, stopping every hour or two to allow it to rest. It was mid-afternoon and Athos was dozing on the large man’s back, when Porthos spotted riders up ahead. If possible, it seemed the men were moving even more slowly than they were, a fact that made the large Musketeer immediately suspicious. “Athos,” he spoke, head partially turned again so his friend would hear him. “Wake up. There’s riders ahead.”

 

He could feel the older man straighten as the weight on his back disappeared, and could almost envision Athos trying to peer around him to confirm what Porthos had seen. He kept their horse’s pace even and cursed the fact that he had only functioning arm, even as he felt Athos pull his pistol in preparation. It seemed that the riders ahead of them were also skittish and they’d slowed even further, stopping completely after a few more steps and turning to face them. “I don’t like this,” Porthos hissed, feeling Athos tense at his back as they approached. The sun was in their eyes and Porthos momentarily considered lifting his hand to shade his face so he could get a better look at the men that awaited, but the need to keep the horse under control was too great and he huffed in frustration as his hand tightened around the animal’s lead. “Can you tell who they are?” Porthos asked lowly, hoping Athos might have a better view from his position.

 

“No,” the older man replied quietly, close to Porthos’ ear, “I can’t make anything out past the glare of the sun. “Just keep moving forward but be prepared to break to the left if things turn bad.”

 

Porthos gave a short nod, not wanting to give anything away to the men ahead of them. The distance between them continued to close and he could feel the sweat beginning to bead at his hairline as the tension seemed to build. Suddenly, Athos gripped his arm tightly as he gasped, “No, it can’t be.” The older man stiffened as he waited for his friend to explain, still unable to make out anything more than shadows of the riders that now blocked their path forward.

* * *

Athos had thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him, the men up ahead appearing somewhere they weren’t supposed to be and his mind struggled to realize that the sight before him wasn’t a figment of his fever-addled brain. The man in the lead looked weary and covered in grime, even his hat seeming to droop in imitation of the man wearing it, but the smile on his face was unmistakable even from their current distance. The man at his side, slightly further back, looked just as worn and a frown appeared on Athos’ face as he registered that something wasn’t quite right about the way in which he held his arm. “They should be on the north road to Le Havre. Why are they here?” Athos spoke out loud, causing Porthos to finally lift his hand to shade his eyes, only to be greeted by the vision of their two friends.

 

Despite their shabby appearance, Porthos couldn’t stifle his joy at seeing the men and he urged their horse to move faster, stopping only when they stood a few feet apart. The men silently watched one another for several long moments, a myriad of questions running through their minds, but for a short period, they were satisfied merely with seeing each other alive if not completely well.

 

“’Mis,” Porthos was the first to break the silence, unable to remain quiet any longer, the relief he felt at seeing his oldest friend alive making his heart race in his chest, loosening something within him. In that instant, nothing else that had happened mattered and as long as they were back together, there was nothing they couldn’t overcome.

 

Aramis’ smile broadened at the larger man, not missing how the man had choked out his name, and the Spaniard shared Porthos’ sentiment, simply grateful at seeing the other man alive. Out of habit, his eyes examined the large Musketeer automatically, his generally healthy appearance settling his mind, only to find it twinging in concern seconds later when his eyes landed on the splinted right arm. “Porthos,” Aramis said, partly in greeting and partly in question, needing to know more about the injured limb.

 

Porthos gave a rueful smile as he glanced down before locking gazes once more with his friend, “Broken, but it’s mending well. A healer in a town a few hours back confirmed it.”

 

Aramis’ expression softened at the knowledge that Porthos was alright, which led him to wonder at the fact that the two men were now sharing one horse. Narrowing his eyes again he asked, “What happened to your horse, Athos, and where are your Red Guard companions?”

 

Porthos shifted his horse slightly so Athos could address the men without peering around his shoulder. “I would hazard a guess that our reason for being without the Red Guards is the same as yours,” Athos stated.

 

“You were attacked,” d’Artagnan declared, no hint of a question in his tone.

 

Athos nodded as he scrutinized the Gascon, not missing the pale features and pinched expression he wore. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

 

“Dislocated my shoulder,” the young man answered.

 

“Twice,” Aramis corrected, leaving no room for d’Artagnan to downplay his injuries. The young man rolled his eyes in such a familiar fashion that Athos’ lips turned upwards in a faint smile.

 

“Twice?” Porthos queried. “There’s a story there.”

 

Aramis turned serious as he agreed, “There is and it’s the reason we need to keep moving. Let’s ride and we can explain on the way.”

 

They turned their horses toward Le Havre, Athos and Porthos riding between the two men, as the former prompted them to explain. “You fear pursuit?” he asked.

 

d’Artagnan nodded, “An Englishman named Pritchard and five others. We managed to escape but have been careful to keep moving.”

 

“You were overtaken by six men?” Porthos repeated incredulously. “I know the Red Guards aren’t very good but surely five against six was fairly even odds.”

 

Aramis nodded, “It would have been if we hadn’t been attacked by nearly double that the first time.”

 

“You were attacked twice?” Athos confirmed, eyebrows rising in surprise.

 

“Yes. The Red Guards were all killed in the first attack, but we managed to get away. Pritchard and his men caught up with us the next day and d’Artagnan was their guest for a short time,” Aramis explained.

 

Porthos and Athos both looked to the Gascon to take up the story, “I tried to buy Aramis enough time to get away but he came back for me instead. They knew we had the package and wanted to know the name of the ship we’re supposed to meet.”

 

“The bandits left you alone after their initial attack?” Aramis pressed, curious to understand why he and the Gascon had warranted such interest.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos confirmed. “They must ‘ave thought we were dead and rode off.”

 

Aramis’ gaze swung sharply to meet his friend’s as he asked, “Why would they think you dead?”

 

“I believe that may have been my fault after I was pushed into the Seine and Porthos came in after me,” Athos admitted, trying to tone down the seriousness of the event.

 

“You fell into the river?” d’Artagnan repeated in disbelief.

 

“To be fair, I was pushed in by one of our attackers,” Athos corrected.

 

“Are you alright?” the Gascon continued, wondering now if his mentor’s clothing hid any wounds.

 

“I’m fine,” the older Musketeer began, only to be interrupted by Porthos’ snort.

 

“He just spent two days in bed, burnin’ up with fever and coughing,” Porthos corrected.

 

“Pneumonia,” Aramis stated, certain of his prognosis given the water that their friend had likely swallowed and the freezing temperature of the Seine at that time of year. Porthos gave a tilt of his head in acknowledgement of the medic’s declaration. “You still have medicine to take?” Aramis pressed, knowing well that Athos could not possibly be recovered yet from such a serious illness, seeing the signs of it still in his gaunt features and hoarse voice.

 

“Yes,” Athos concurred, “the healer was quite insistent.”

 

The comment brought a smile to the medic’s lips, “Sounds like a man I’d like to meet.”

 

“Woman, actually,” Porthos corrected. “But she was a little old for you, although she might enjoy having you on her arm to show off to her friends,” he went on, now teasing his friend.

 

“Ah, Porthos, you underestimate the skill that an older woman can possess,” Aramis retorted with a grin, falling easily into the comfortable banter.

 

Their antics made the Gascon roll his eyes and even Athos couldn’t help the smile that threatened to erupt. Turning serious at the poor condition of the two men, Athos asked the question at the forefront of his mind, “Other than the unwelcome attention, how has your journey been?”

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan shared a look and Athos could almost see them deciding how much to share. Finally, the Gascon replied, “It hasn’t been much fun. The road we were on offered few opportunities for shelter and it rained for the first part, so we were constantly soaked to the bone. I managed to find an abandoned house where Aramis could stitch up his side, but we’ve spent a few nights camped outside.”

 

Porthos’ head swivelled to the Spaniard as he honed in on the young man’s words, “What’s wrong with your side, Aramis?”

 

The medic gave a small shrug as he replied demurely, “An unfortunately placed blade that got inside my guard.”

 

“And has since become infected,” d’Artagnan added, his tone not allowing for any argument.

 

Athos let out a sigh that caused him to start coughing and the three men spent the next several seconds watching him, waiting until the fit ended and he was able to draw a shallow breath. He noticed Aramis’ thoughtful expression and shook his head, not yet ready to speak, lest it set off another round of coughs. When he’d recovered sufficiently, he spoke, his voice raspier than before, “Have we quite inventoried everyone’s injuries at this point?”

 

The question was a valid one, and while the men were typically loathe to share their infirmities, in a situation such as the one they currently faced, each man needed to know the others’ strengths and weaknesses. All of them nodded in turn and Athos gave a short nod of approval. “We’ll keep moving for as long as we can today and find someplace, indoors,” he looked pointedly at Aramis, “where we can spend the night. Assuming all goes well, we should reach Le Havre tomorrow afternoon.”

 

Porthos almost cringed as he heard Athos’ words, wondering if he was just being overly paranoid or if the man’s statement would actually bring misfortune their way. Regardless, they would do everything in their power to remain vigilant and cover as much ground as they could before the day came to an end.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Aramis, we need to talk,” he said softly, his tone even and low, but conveying the full seriousness of his intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely reaction to the boys' reunion - I was glad to hear that folks enjoyed it.

It was only a couple hours later that trouble arrived. The road they were on followed alongside the Seine once again and they would blame their slow realization of riders behind them on the fact that the wind had picked up and the skies had clouded over, bringing with it a shower that normally would not have bothered any of them, but when combined with the wind, made every drop of water sting against their skin as it was forcefully lashed against them. The sound of the rain and wind covered their attacker’s approach until the men were within shooting range, and they announced their presence by loosing several shots, all of which missed but one.

 

Athos lurched forward against Porthos, momentarily needing to steady himself against the larger man even as he was yelling for his friends to push the horses to move faster. Over a long distance the Musketeers would be outpaced, the horses tired and overburdened, and no match for the fresh animals that chased them. Porthos could feel Athos turning behind him and a shot followed shortly afterward, but the large man could not afford to divide his attention as he focused solely on maintaining control over the horse with his single hand.

 

The three horses had pulled further apart when the attack began, and Aramis was now turning to fire his ball as well, and Athos spared a glance to see one of the bandits fall. The sight brought a grim smile to his face as he admired the marksman’s skill.

 

“We can’t outrun them,” d’Artagnan called across to his friends, giving voice to what the other three had already realized. They would be forced to stand and fight, an option that left them little chance for success. Aramis had already discharged one of his weapons and they all knew from experience that he carried another. Athos had only the one pistol but there was still Porthos’ and the older man would take his shot as well. d’Artagnan would be at a disadvantage, the same as the larger Musketeer, using his one free hand to keep control of his mount as they raced to get away from their pursuers.

 

“There!” Aramis shouted, pointing to a structure in the distance that his keen eyes had identified as a bridge. It was narrow and was likely meant only for foot traffic, but if they had enough time, it was possible the odds could still be turned in their favour. Athos caught the sharpshooter’s eye and nodded, Aramis immediately kicking his horse into a gallop in order to reach the other side before their attackers. The others weren’t certain of the plan but they followed in Aramis’ wake, Athos continually casting glances behind them as Porthos tucked in behind d’Artagnan’s horse.

 

The first two men crossed over relatively quickly, urging the horses across the wooden structure that made the animals skittish and uncertain. Porthos alighted the bridge last, his horse taking only two steps before faltering and Porthos’ dug his heels into the animals flanks as he cursed, “Move, damn you.”

 

Whether it was the Musketeer’s words or his actions that finally convinced the horse, neither man could say, but the animal moved grudgingly across, neighing to express its displeasure at the surface beneath its hooves. They were half-way across when Aramis swung from his horse, clamping down on a cry of pain as his injured side pulled with the motion. He pulled a bag from his saddle and hurried back to the edge of the bridge, falling to his knees and beginning to work as he waited for their last two comrades to join them.

 

It would be a close thing, and Athos could see the first rider moving onto the bridge behind them, while they still had another 10 metres to go. Aramis’ eyes were ablaze as he silently urged the men to move faster. Moments later, they stepped from the bridge, Aramis yelling at them to keep going while he turned back to his work. Porthos did as he’d been told, moving a good distance away to stop next to the others’ horses, and the three friends waited impatiently for Aramis to join them, watching as a second attacker guided his horse onto the wooden structure.

 

Several seconds later, they watched as Aramis stood and ran toward them, the ground where he’d been hissing with the short fuse he’d lit, burning its way to ignite the pile of gunpowder he’d poured at the base of the bridge. It was a risky move, but the only one they had and they waited with baited breath as Aramis skidded into place beside them as they prayed the powder would do its job.

 

The explosion was an impressive display of sound and smoke, and for several seconds the air was too clouded between them to see if their gamble had succeeded. Then, the wind swept the remains of the explosion away and they were greeted with the wondrous sight of the nearest portion of the bridge broken away, the larger pieces of wood and debris floating down the Seine. The rest of the bridge was swaying precariously over the water, and the men knew that it, too, would fall momentarily, leaving their pursuers no way of following until they found another place to cross the wide, fast-moving river. On the opposite bank, the four remaining riders stood seething, their quarry out of pistol range, and another of their group having been lost to the river when the bridge had failed.

 

“I can’t believe that worked,” Porthos remarked with surprise, a grin now adorning his face.

 

Aramis looked at him with a somewhat more stunned expression as he agreed, “Neither can I.” He turned to his horse, swaying for a moment as the adrenaline dissipated, leaving him feeling lightheaded and even weaker than before.

 

“Aramis?” d’Artagnan started, worried about how unsteady the man seemed, but the Spaniard gave a slight shake of his head.

 

“I’m alright. Just too much excitement over these last few days.” Aramis’ words demonstrated his ability for understatement, since there were few who would describe the past week in quite that fashion. As he steadied himself against the side of his horse, he looked up at the others, asking “Is everyone alright?”

 

Porthos and d’Artagnan nodded, their injuries no worse than before, but Athos grimaced at him as he replied, “One of their shots hit my leg.”

 

Porthos immediately began to twist in the saddle, turning first one way and then the other until he spotted the patch of red on the outside of Athos’ right thigh. Aramis saw Porthos’ look of sympathy as he asked, “How bad?”

 

“Just a flesh wound, I think, but it needs to be bound,” Athos responded, eyeing the wound with disgust.

 

Aramis gave a short nod and dug around in his saddlebags, his hands emerging with clean bandages. Handing the linen to Athos, he took a moment to examine the wound, which turned out to be nothing more than a deep slice along the side of the man’s leg. Looking back up at the older man he said, “I might be able to place a couple stitches.”

 

Athos shook his head, “No, just bind it tightly and we’ll have another look later when we’re somewhere safe.”

 

It wasn’t ideal, but the men who’d followed them had already turned their horses away, no doubt searching for another place where the river could be crossed. The medic placed a folded portion of the bandage against the wound, binding it tightly with another length of linen which he wrapped around the older man’s thigh several times, before tying it off. Athos was paler than he had been before but he gave Aramis a tight nod of thanks when he’d finished. They waited for Aramis to mount and then guided their horses toward Le Havre, this time on the other side of the river and with the certainty that Pritchard and his men would continue to hunt them. 

* * *

After the difficulties of their journey, it seemed that fate had finally decided to turn in their favour and they found a farmhouse whose owners were happy to feed the weary soldiers and allowed the foursome to sleep in their one empty room. Most would have considered the space too small for four grown men, but to the Musketeers, it was a welcome respite from sleeping out of doors, especially as the rain continued to fall. All of them were tired and chilled from the relentless moisture and they had sat around the home’s fireplace gratefully as their cloaks began to steam as they dried. The room they’d been given for the night contained a single bed, which was eventually filled with Athos and Aramis, the two men’s fevers rising the longer they’d ridden through the cold and rain.

 

d’Artagnan was grateful that he wouldn’t have to spend another night standing watch, his eyes burning with fatigue and barely able to stay awake through the warm meal they’d been served. He knew that he’d nearly reached his body’s limits, feeling shaky and fuzzy-headed and chilled to his core, and his shoulder and chest ached keenly with every movement; it was enough to have him wishing to do nothing more than curl up and let oblivion take him for the night. The men had briefly discussed a watch rotation and, when d’Artagnan had been assigned the time nearest dawn, he’d grabbed a blanket and claimed a portion of the floor as his, dropping off almost at once.

 

Porthos had watched him fondly before reminding Athos of the need to take his medicine, and then had waited patiently as Aramis had fussed over the two of them, before checking his own wound and adding more of the salve he used to fight infection. When the two had finally fallen into bed, Porthos had watched over his friends, affectionately recalling other times when they’d been forced to share a room together.

 

He took the first three hours of the night before waking Athos, the older man waiting until nearly dawn to wake Aramis, allowing the medic and d’Artagnan the most sleep since he and Porthos had had the easiest time of things over the past few days. When the Gascon was woken after the sun had already risen, he blinked at them in confusion, not remembering being asked to take his turn to stand watch. “You lost a night’s sleep taking care of Aramis and needed a proper rest to catch up,” Athos told him, unrepentant about the decision to extend his and Porthos’ turns so the young man could sleep.

 

The Gascon looked at Aramis, but the medic merely shrugged, “Don’t look at me. They let me sleep far longer than I was supposed to, as well.”

 

d’Artagnan’s face softened with a smile as he nodded his thanks.

 

Aramis had ensured that Athos took his medicine and Porthos consumed a portion of the pain draught the healer had prepared, offering some to the young man as well, who declined. Despite the full night of sleep, he still felt off somehow and he brought a hand to his chest to lightly sit against the burns that continued to cause him pain. Aramis still felt the low-grade fever that indicated his infection persisted, so he applied more salve to his side and reminded himself that they would be in Le Havre by nightfall.

 

The rest of their journey was surprisingly unremarkable and they arrived before the evening meal at the inn where they’d originally planned to meet. By unspoken agreement, the men gave up their horses to the stable boy and trudged inside to find rooms for the night, saving their delivery until morning. They took two rooms, with two beds apiece, Porthos naturally gravitating to share with Aramis, while d’Artagnan followed Athos.

 

Aramis stepped into the room they’d been given and looked around at the simple furnishings which consisted of two beds, a small table against one wall which also held a pitcher and wash basin, and a table and two chairs. Glancing at his Porthos, his expression reflecting the weariness he felt, he remarked, “Home, sweet home.”

 

Porthos nodded in approval, glad for the fact that they had a roof over their heads, more for his friends’ sakes than for his own as he worried over the fevers that continued to plague them. Aramis set his saddlebags and weapons down on the floor at the foot of one of the beds and dropped gingerly to sit on the edge of the bed, rubbing his hands across his face as he reflected on the perils that had plagued them on the trip from Paris. Porthos moved quietly, mirroring his friend’s actions, sitting down on the opposite bed and waiting for the man to look up and notice him.

 

When he did, Porthos smiled, needing to broach the subject that had been forcing a wedge between them for months. “Aramis, we need to talk,” he said softly, his tone even and low, but conveying the full seriousness of his intentions. He could see the Spaniard preparing to protest and he raised his hand to forestall any argument. “Please, if you won’t talk, at least listen.”

 

Aramis stared at his friend, his heart racing with the knowledge that the moment he’d dreaded for so long had arrived. He felt the same need to settle things as Porthos did, but was not yet ready to share the secret that could condemn his friend to death if it were ever found out. With trepidation, he nodded, acquiescing to at least hear the man out.

 

“Good,” Porthos commended him, understanding how difficult this conversation would be for both of them. “I’ve never had a friend like you, ‘Mis, and it pains my heart to think there’s something you’re not tellin’ me that’s pullin’ us apart. I won’t force you to share something you’re not ready to, but I won’t be pushed away anymore. Whatever has been goin’ on between us, it has to stop.” Porthos paused and took a steadying breath as he said, “I want my brother back, ‘Mis.”

 

Aramis gave a shaky nod, needing a moment to compose himself as he swallowed the emotion that was threatening to choke him. Porthos’ sincerity and raw need to have his friend back was nearly palpable and Aramis felt a new flush of shame at how he’d treated the man. While still not prepared to divulge the focus of his distraction, he could be a better friend than he’d been as of late, redeeming himself in other ways that didn’t require him to confess his ultimate sin. Locking gazes with the larger man, Aramis steadied himself and spoke, “I am back, Porthos, I promise.” Porthos’ expression remained the same as he waited expectantly for more, for something that the Spaniard was as yet unable to provide. “I cannot give you what you ask, Porthos, not yet. The secret I hold – that Athos and I protect – is one that we will pay for with our lives and I will not have you share that burden.”

 

Porthos watched the medic for many long moments, trying to read his friend’s face and gauge his honesty. Aramis’ expression was intense, his need to be forgiven and have his words accepted screaming from every part of his stiff frame. Porthos could see the regret in his friend’s face and recognized that the man’s remorse was genuine and, while he still didn’t know what lay between Aramis and Athos, his goal had been simple – get his friend back. He gave a tight nod, not wanting the Spaniard to get too excited until he’d stated his terms. “Alright, I’ll accept that for now, but” he warned, his tone serious, “whatever is going on between you and Athos has got to stop. The four of us don’t work if the two of you are at odds.”

 

Aramis nodded eagerly, the tension in his shoulders falling away like water, “I promise.” The words were whispered but heartfelt and Porthos was satisfied that Aramis would do as he said. His face split into a grin as he moved to sit next to Aramis, wrapping his good arm around the man and pulling him close for several seconds, the Spaniard happily melting into the embrace, something that had been absent between them for many months and sorely missed. When Porthos released him, Aramis was almost sorry to be released but he drew a deep breath as the larger man straightened beside him.

 

“I’m hungry,” Porthos announced, pulling a bark of laughter from the Spaniard.

 

“Of course, you are.” He stood and offered a hand to the large Musketeer. “Let’s go collect our two friends and see what’s being served for dinner.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the next hit landed on his temple, d’Artagnan’s lips quirked into a smile as the world narrowed and the darkness overcame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments letting me know you enjoyed the reconciliation in the last chapter. Another talk ahead in this one. Hope you enjoy!

Across the hall, d’Artagnan was also considering how to speak with his friend about what troubled him, relieved beyond measure to have Athos back at his side, but aware of the strain that stilted their interactions. Athos had gone immediately to sit at the table, dropping his weapons on the floor next to him. The Gascon could tell that the older man was tired and feeling weak, his body still fighting the fever and coughs that meant he should be in bed rather than riding through the French countryside. Added to his earlier illness, d’Artagnan had watched how Athos had limped up the stairs to their room, the wound on his leg obviously paining him, and he made a mental note to himself to remind Aramis to tend it properly.

 

Slipping into the chair across from his mentor, d’Artagnan placed his weapons on the floor as well and pulled a hand through his dirty hair, grimacing at the greasiness he encountered. He released a long sigh, astonished at how tired he felt, even after a decent night’s rest, and his hand moved instinctively to hold his sore shoulder, the joint throbbing after the day of riding. When he looked over at his friend, Athos was staring unseeingly at a point across the room, hands clasped together in his lap. “Athos,” d’Artagnan spoke softly, waiting until the man had looked up. “I need to apologize.”

 

The older man’s expression turned confused, uncertain about why the Gascon felt he owed him an apology. “I’ve judged you unfairly and been undeservedly harsh. I hope…I pray that you can find it in your heart to forgive my poor behaviour and that this does not affect our friendship. I hold you in the highest esteem and fear I have been remiss in treating you accordingly.”

 

Athos was stunned by his protégé’s words and having this conversation was the last thing he’d expected. When things had come to a head between the two of them, the Gascon’s accusations had been more than hurtful, sounding almost hateful, and Athos had been shocked at how venomously they’d been spat at him, the young man’s behaviour so unlike his typical caring nature. It was true that d’Artagnan had a fiery passion, but he would never intentionally hurt someone he cared for, and Athos had gratefully counted himself among that number.

 

Since that night, things between them had been worse than awkward, the easy back and forth, the relationship of older and younger brother had all but vanished, and Athos found himself missing it sorely. When added to his already frayed nerves at watching his murdering wife worm her way into the King’s good graces, and ultimately his bed, it was more than Athos could take. The result had been even more desperate drinking, now attempting to forget not only his wife, but also the respect he’d lost in the eyes of the young Gascon.

 

Now, the same boy who’d cut him so deeply was looking for reconciliation, asking for forgiveness and a return to their previous camaraderie as though nothing of the past few months mattered. Normally, there would have been little to consider and Athos would have forgiven him automatically, but now, something had changed, and he could not put his finger on what caused him to falter.

 

"Athos?" d’Artagnan spoke hesitantly as Athos remained silent for too long.

 

The older man’s eyes flickered upwards from where they’d drifted again to the floor, and he read the anxiety in the boy’s posture as he waited for a response. Once more he recognized that in the past he would have done anything in his power to erase the young man’s doubt, but now he felt unbalanced and uncertain of his place in the Gascon’s heart. “I…” he began, only to pause when he realized he didn’t know what to say. Clearing his throat, he tried a different tact, “I think this conversation should wait until we’ve returned to Paris. Right now we should be focused on the mission and make plans for our delivery of the package tomorrow morning.”

 

d’Artagnan flinched as though he’d been slapped, physically moving backwards in his chair and away from his friend. Athos saw the movement but didn’t have the words to soothe the boy’s fears, so he remained silent. The Gascon’s breaths were increasing as the young man reeled from his mentor’s dismissal, unwilling to even acknowledge the apology he’d presented, having agonized over it the entire time they’d been apart.

 

His mind reeling, he pushed to his feet, walking numbly toward the door of their room. “Where are you going?” Athos asked as the young man’s intention to leave became clear.

 

“To get some air,” the Gascon mumbled as he strode through the door, pulling it closed behind him without a backward glance.

 

Athos’ head dropped to his chest as the young man left, the door closing with more force than necessary, telegraphing how upset he was. It had not been his intent to add to the young man’s distress; he’d simply been caught unexpectedly and hadn’t known how to respond. Now, the Gascon had left their room and headed outside, placing himself potentially in sight of those who pursued them.

 

As the thought struck, Athos went to stand, his right leg protesting and sending a spike of pain up to his hip, causing him to sink back down to the chair. He gripped his thigh, just above the wound, as he breathed deeply through the pain. A knock at the door had him jerking his head upwards, watching as the door swung open almost immediately afterwards to reveal Aramis and Porthos. “Porthos is hungry,” the Spaniard announced with a grin, the large man behind him wearing a similar expression.

 

The stopped partway into the room, looking around in confusion, “Where’s d’Artagnan?” Porthos asked.

 

Athos waved a hand in the general direction of the door, “Went outside to get some air.”

 

The look he received from both men caused him to glare in return. “We had…words. He just stormed out and I was about to go after him, but my leg…” he trailed off, Aramis understanding immediately and moving forward to have a look.

 

“I’ll go see to the boy,” Porthos stated, knowing that the medic would be busy for several minutes at least, tending to their oldest. He threw a slightly disgruntled look at Athos for his part in d’Artagnan’s leaving before turning and doing as he’d said.

 

Aramis was already kneeling beside Athos’ leg, unwinding the bandage he’d placed there earlier. He was happy to find that the bleeding had all but stopped, but he still needed to properly clean and examine the furrow that split the man’s skin. “I need to get my supplies from my bag. Can you manage your breeches by yourself?” Athos gave him a dark look that told the medic what he thought of the question and Aramis stood and left the older man to undress himself. When he returned, Athos was seated again, having pulled at the rip in his braies until it was large enough to allow easy access. Aramis gave him a cheeky grin when he saw what Athos had done to prevent being fully undressed, but wisely didn’t comment.

 

Athos bore the cleaning of his wound stoically, privately grateful when the medic pronounced that the slice would heal well enough without stitches. It was as Aramis was placing a new bandage across the wound that Porthos reappeared, the Gascon conspicuously absent from his side. The two friends looked up at his arrival, their faces full of question. “He’s gone,” Porthos announced, somewhat breathlessly.

 

Athos’ eyes narrowed as he queried, “What do you mean, he’s gone? Gone where?” Already he was imaging that the young man had done something reckless and gone to find a tavern to drown his sorrows.

 

“Taken,” Porthos clarified, the expression on his face panicked. “The stable boy said he saw two men grab another, and from the lad’s description, it was d’Artagnan.”

 

Aramis cursed under his breath, Athos falling silent as the blood drained from his face. d’Artagnan had come to him seeking to make amends, offering an opportunity to return to the friendship that they had enjoyed before, and now he was gone, kidnapped, and Athos had little doubt as to the identity of the kidnappers; Pritchard had found them.    

* * *

The fist that struck his jaw snapped his head sharply to the right, and he could taste the iron tang of blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut into the inside of his cheek. For a moment he considered simply swallowing the thick liquid, but his stomach lurched at the thought and he managed a thick-lipped spit instead, a gob of blood landing on the floor at his feet. His head hung limply for a moment, lacking the energy to lift it again and the man beating him did him the favour of pulling it up after twining his fingers through the Gascon’s lank hair.

 

d’Artagnan looked up at the man through half-lidded eyes, his vision wavering oddly as his jumbled brain sought to make sense of what it was seeing. “Tell me the name of the ship,” the man spat at him, and the memory broke free, reminding him of his current predicament.

 

He’d been shocked at Athos’ reaction to his apology, a combination of outrage and hurt seeking an outlet, and the only thing he could do other than to lash out at his mentor was to walk away. He’d been genuine in his need to go outside and get some air, the room all at once feeling too stifling for him to remain within the walls that seemed to be closing in on him. He’d felt the tears prickling at his eyes and had moved as quickly as he could to the door before he embarrassed himself in front of his friend.

 

Friend – was that even something he could continue to call Athos or had he lost that privilege the night when he’d lashed out at the man, all of his weeks of frustration at the older man’s self-destructive drinking making his tongue venomous as he’d unburdened himself. And it had been a burden, d’Artagnan realized, the fear of constantly worrying over his friend weighing on him until he could no longer manage its bulk. He’d felt better for a short while afterwards, congratulating himself on saying what needed to be said, until he’d shared the evening’s events with Constance. She had been stunned at his insensitive comments, urging him to go to Athos and immediately plead for forgiveness, but his Gascon pride had gotten in the way, and he managed to convince himself that he’d done nothing wrong.

 

The days and weeks that followed were wholly different from anything he’d ever experienced since joining the threesome and doubt began to eat away at him, followed soon after by shame and guilt for his behaviour. He’d screwed up the courage a few times before to approach the man, but Athos made it patently clear that there would be no resolution, whatever hurt the Gascon had caused, still too fresh to consider forgiveness. So d’Artagnan had bided his time until he could bear the tension between them no longer. He’d been certain that Athos would forgive him and had no idea of how to react when he didn’t, taking the cowardly way out by escaping from the room as fast as his feet could carry him.

 

Outside the inn, he’d taken several steps away the building, eventually leaning against a wall where he threw his head back and closed his eyes, still fighting against the urge to let the moisture that clouded his vision spill. He’d second-guessed himself then, wondering if he had the right to ask the other man to forgive him, knowing in his heart what the consequences would be if Athos didn’t, but completely at a loss regarding how to fix things between them. It was as he was lost in contemplation that a voice had caught him unaware, and he started when he realized that a man stood nearly right next to him. There was little time for further thought as a fist rocketed toward his face and he felt the skin at his cheek split as his legs folded beneath him. He’d landed badly, falling on his injured shoulder and whatever the force of the hit had not accomplished, the agony that swept through his left side did, pushing him into blackness almost immediately.

 

Now he stared, nearly unseeing, his vision foggy from a combination of the swelling underneath his left eye and the numerous hits he’d taken to the head since he’d woken. The man leaning over him was talking again but d’Artagnan’s tongue felt heavy and uncooperative and he couldn’t comprehend the man’s words anyway. His silence earned him a blow to the chest, his left flank undoubtedly turning just as many colors as he wore on his face from the continued abuse. He panted, head hanging low once more, vaguely grateful for the ropes that bound him to the chair, even though leaning on them pulled achingly at his sore shoulder, both arms having been tied behind his back.

 

One more, he thought idly to himself, breathing heavily through parted lips. One more strike to either his face or his torso should push his body over the edge, allowing him to escape to blessed unconsciousness for a short while, keeping his brothers safe. When the next hit landed on his temple, d’Artagnan’s lips quirked into a smile as the world narrowed and the darkness overcame him. 

* * *

The water was freezing cold and it had him jerking in surprise, pulling at his injured shoulder and groaning with the pain the movement caused. He was blinking slowly to remove the liquid from his eyes, even as he kept his lips parted, tongue darting out to catch the few stray drops of moisture that trickled down his face. He had no idea how long he’d been held by his captors, but he’d had nothing to eat or drink the entire time and his body was begging for water.

 

When he managed to focus, he saw the blurry face of his tormentor staring back at him, a mirthless smile on his face. “We cannot have you falling asleep on us, Monsieur. You would miss out on all the fun we’re having.”

 

d’Artagnan licked his lips a last time before he spoke, “You English have strange ideas of what is fun.”

 

“It does, I suppose, depend on which side you are standing on and right now,” he considered the battered Musketeer in front of him, “from where I’m standing, I believe I have the better vantage point. Of course, that can all change. All you need to do is tell me the name of the ship you’re meeting.” Pritchard stared at him again and d’Artagnan was almost taken back by the complete lack of compassion in the man’s eyes. This was someone who did what they did not out of a sense of duty, but because they enjoyed inflicting pain on others, a fact that made the bandit an incredibly dangerous enemy.

 

The Gascon wished he could just give the man the information he sought in order to end his suffering, the days of mistreatment taking their toll and leaving him exhausted, both mentally and physically. If it was simply the mission at stake, he might actually consider giving up the ship’s name, but he remained silent to protect his brothers. While he had no sense of the passage of time, having woken in the windowless room already tied to the chair, he was certain that it was still nighttime and his friends would not complete their mission until morning.

 

For that reason, he had to stay quiet, allowing the men enough time to make their delivery, at which point the ship would leave and d’Artagnan’s life would become irrelevant. It was his fate regardless, he recognized, since Pritchard would cut his throat once he had the information he sought anyway; the two options left little incentive for him to cooperate and he clamped his jaw tightly closed, prepared for whatever the bandit did to him next. He didn’t have to wait long as the Englishman grew tired of waiting and snapped his fingers irritably at one of his men. Seconds later he held a hot blade in his hand and d’Artagnan had to fight hard to keep his expression neutral and not tremble at the memory of the burning knife on his skin.

* * *

“We need to go search for him,” Athos declared, preparing to push to his feet as Aramis held him down in his chair, the argument already having grown old. The medic threw Porthos a pleading look as he held the older man in place, pushing down on one shoulder from where he stood behind his friend’s chair.

 

Porthos stepped closer and took the seat across from the older Musketeer, leaning closer to the man as he did so, “Athos, we’ve already talked about this and agreed that we have to wait until morning. We have no idea where they took the boy. It would be worse than tryin’ to find a needle in a haystack.”

 

Athos huffed irritably as he scowled at the large man. “Porthos is right,” Aramis said from behind him, squeezing his shoulder in an effort to calm him. “We’ll make the delivery first thing and see the ship sail, and hopefully that will be enough for Pritchard to release him. After all, he won’t have any further use for him at that point.”

 

Porthos winced as he heard the Spaniard’s words and Aramis realized immediately what he’d said. “That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “It’s unlikely that they’ll kill him and risk war with France. They’d be better off just to set him free.”

 

“And what of the boy’s ability to report English soldiers on French soil. Would that not be reason enough to silence him?” Athos’ words were clipped and toneless, but the two men knew that was only because he’d taken extra care to keep all emotion from his voice, lest the fear he held for the young man overcome him.

 

“Athos, you know we’re just as worried about the lad as you are,” Porthos hesitated. “There’s just nothing else we can do without any clues to where he’s being held.”

 

Athos’ hands were clasped tightly together and both men could see the internal battle that was waging inside their friend. Logically, what the two had said was correct and the prudent decision would be to follow through on their plans and see if the young man was released to them. Logic had little to do, however, with the terror that ate at his insides, making his stomach clench and his heart race, urging him to move and search every building in the city until he’d found the young man. He raised his eyes to Porthos’ and saw the same anguish reflected there and, no doubt, Aramis’ expression would be the same. These men were his friends, his brothers, and no matter what had transpired between them as of late, he could not deny that they felt the same way he did about their missing fourth. With a force of will, he gave a single nod, succumbing to their desire to do nothing.  


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere above him, his friends were fighting for their lives, and not knowing how they were faring was nearly worse than the soreness of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sharing your reactions with me to the last chapter and sorry for leaving things on a bit of a cliffhanger. Hope you enjoy this next part.

He’d screamed when he’d passed out the last time; whether that was the third time or the fourth, he couldn’t recall, but the fiery heat of the burns was the first thing he became aware of when he awoke, a counterpoint to the chill of his body that made him shiver. Without meaning to, he moaned, the sound full of the agony that now gripped him and made it hard for him to think clearly. Forcing heavy lids to open, d’Artagnan did his best to scan the room without moving any further, and after several long seconds, was fairly confident that he was alone.

 

The thought of being on his own should probably have frightened him, making him wonder what devilish ideas Pritchard was planning to inflict on him next, but for now, d’Artagnan was simply grateful for a reprieve from the man’s cruelty. He looked down at his chest, attempting to see the patches of burned skin where Pritchard had pressed his heated blade after the collar of his shirt had been roughly ripped and pulled aside. He caught sight of the red and raw looking marks, gagging as the smell of burnt flesh assaulted him and had him turning to the side as much as he was able to vomit stringy bile. He’d missed dinner last night, the men having planned to get settled into their rooms first before seeking food; as his stomach clenched painfully, d’Artagnan thought it might have been a good thing that his belly was empty.  

  

When his gag reflex had subsided, the Gascon swallowed carefully against the taste of stomach acid that now lingered on his tongue, but there was almost no moisture left in his mouth after being denied water for hours on end; it was just one more in a long list of discomforts that added to his misery. His head had begun to throb at some point during the interrogation and d’Artagnan believed it might be from a combination of trying to withhold his screams of pain and the multiple blows he’d taken to the face. His chest was an angry mass of bruised and tortured tissue and Pritchard had taken great pleasure in placing his blade on the partially-burned skin from earlier before moving on to mark his flesh anew. His shoulder was almost muted in comparison to his torso, but any movement pulled on the damaged joint and the only consolation was that his arm had somehow managed to remain in place, despite the rough treatment he’d received.

 

He knew he should try to stay awake, but he was incredibly tired and craved the opportunity to escape the pain of his body, if only for a short while. Despite that, he managed only to doze and he thought of his friends as he drifted between true sleep and full wakefulness. He was relatively certain that the men would have discovered his absence by now, surely not believing that he would have disappeared on his own. Whether they were looking for him or not was a question he had no answer to, since it was likely that reason had prevailed, keeping the three at the inn overnight before departing in the morning to find the ship they were meeting. In the past, he might have believed that his friends would follow their hearts instead, but the discord of the past few months made him question the bond that existed between them, especially after Athos’ unwillingness to forgive his transgressions the previous night.

 

Athos. The fact that he might die without his mentor’s absolution pained him almost more than the thought of never seeing Constance again. If he were rescued, he still had no idea how to resolve things between them, damming them to continue on as they had been before, an option that he was unwilling to accept and yet one that fate seemed to be forcing upon him. Perhaps if he tried one more time, he might be able to convince the man to give him another chance; maybe the others would speak with Athos on his behalf, pleading with words that were more convincing than those he was able to muster; or perhaps they were destined to be driven apart, the inseparables disbanding and fading into history as most things did, nothing remaining but the stories that were told about them by others.

 

d’Artagnan sighed, his breath hitching as it pulled on his sore ribs and burned skin. There seemed to be no chance left of a positive resolution and, as his mind turned and twisted the facts in his head, even hope seemed to be slipping through his fingers, leaving him empty and bereft, a part of him beginning to consider that death would be a kinder outcome for them all. His morbid ruminations were interrupted as the door to his prison opened and the Gascon struggled to lift his head and identify the man who appeared.

 

“Looks like you’ll have one more chance to be useful after all,” Pritchard’s disembodied voice spoke to him from the doorway, backlit from the brighter light behind him in the hall. Two men entered and headed toward him, one man carrying a knife that was applied to his bindings. Moments later, he’d been pulled to his feet, one man holding him upright as he fought against a wave of dizziness while the other retied his wrists. As he was pushed forward between the two, he wondered idly what fresh hell Pritchard had prepared for him.

* * *

Staying put had been one of the most difficult things the three men had ever done. The knowledge that their fourth was in the clutches of a brutal man did nothing to dampen their fears and had made the evening difficult and interminable. At Aramis’ insistence, they all ate dinner, even though Athos would swear that the food all tasted like dust, each bite sticking in his throat until he could manage no more. Porthos had done marginally better, but at the end of the meal, all of their plates had food still remaining on them.

 

Attempting to sleep was an exercise in futility and both men had eventually joined Athos in his nighttime vigil of cleaning and preparing their weapons while intermittently staring out the window as they waited for dawn to arrive. No matter how Aramis had pleaded, Porthos was unwilling to drink a portion of his pain draught, claiming that it made him sleepy, which in the medic’s mind was the point. Athos had conceded to drink his medicine but only because it had no narcotic qualities and he needed to keep his illness at bay so that he was strong enough to do what needed to be done in the morning. As a result, the next day found the three men dressed and ready to leave, anxiously praying that the successful completion of their mission would bring the Gascon back to them.

 

They shared a quick glance, checking each other’s readiness, and confirming it with a quick tilt of their heads. Athos led the way out, the other two falling into step behind him as they headed for the busy streets of Le Havre, moving through the early risers as they walked toward the docks. Such was their worry for their missing man that they didn’t notice another who took great interest in their movements, staying at least a hundred feet behind them but mirroring their steps as they wove through the morning crowds.   

 

The docks were far busier than the streets that had brought them down to the water’s edge, large ships towering imposingly over the people who wandered the wooden planks down below. They moved through the groups of men carefully, one hand on their swords at all times in a silent warning that they were not to be trifled with. Even Porthos had slipped his broken arm from its sling, carrying it folded across his chest unaided lest it draw attention and give someone the idea that he would be an easy mark, vulnerable to attack. Le Havre was a flourishing port and there were numerous ships for them to check, walking the length of each one in turn until they reached the stern and could discern its name.

 

It took them over an hour to find the one they sought and Athos led them to one side where a vendor sold ale, purchasing three tankards as the men gathered around a barrel to drink and observe the ship before daring to board. Their silent observer imitated them, slinking off to the side to blend in with the men who milled about, snagging the arm of a grime-covered boy as he passed. “I’m not a man you want to try to rob,” he said, his eyes glinting with anger at the cut-purse’s attempt. The youth glared back at him, pulling slightly to test the hold on his arm. His captor gave him a rough shake, dissuading him from doing anything more for the moment. “If you want to get your hands on some of what’s in my purse, then I have a job for you. Interested?”

 

The young man’s scowl deepened but underneath a small sliver of curiosity had appeared. “What do I ‘ave to do?”

 

The man holding him grinned, even though his expression remained hard and the boy swallowed as he realized how dangerous his captor was. “I need a message delivered and it’s got to be quick. Are you a fast runner, boy?”

 

The youth snorted but nodded anyway. “Alright,” the man reached for his purse and withdrew several coins. Giving the boy directions to Pritchard’s location, he said, “You let the men there know where I am and tell them _Bonaventure_. You got that?”

 

The boy repeated the foreign name once and then gave a short nod, his hand closing around the money he’d been given. “You bring them back here and I’ll pay you double. Double-cross me and you won’t see the sun set.” The youth’s eyes widened but he gave another nod and took off running, the man who’d hired him reasonably certain that his message would reach its destination. Leaning against a post, he crossed his arms and let his gaze return to his quarry, settling in to wait. 

* * *

Pritchard smiled when he received the message from the man he’d stationed outside the inn, hoping that the Musketeers would be rattled enough to make a mistake, and overjoyed at the fact that he’d been correct. It had been a stroke of luck when they’d spotted the youngest one outside the inn the previous night, but the boy had turned out to be as tenacious as the last time they’d held him captive, revealing none of his secrets no matter how much pain they’d inflicted. He’d finally decided to rest a few hours before dawn, needing the sleep after chasing the Musketeers for the last few days.

 

He'd been uncertain how to continue in the morning, but the messenger had brought a new opportunity, and he’d bundled the young soldier swiftly out of the cellar of the old house where he’d been imprisoned. The Gascon blinked rapidly against the outside light, his eyes sore and sensitive after spending so much time in dim candlelight. He was pushed along, regardless of his injuries, and stumbled often only to be jerked upright by the men who flanked him, gripping his arms, the pull on his damaged shoulder bringing tears of pain to his eyes. He considered trying to escape until the man on his right motioned pointedly to the wicked looking blade that he held to the Gascon’s side, prepared at a moment’s notice to drive the knife into the young man’s flank.

 

As they drew closer to the water, d’Artagnan’s heart sank as he realized their destination and he resolved to keep his expression unchanged when they came upon the ship so Pritchard would not be able to identify it as their target by his reaction to it. In the end, it was not the ship but the sight of his friends that undid him, drawing a gasping breath from his chest when he spotted them sipping at their drinks across from the _Bonaventure_. He glanced sharply over at Pritchard and knew by the satisfied grin on the man’s face that he’d seen the Musketeers as well, their presence almost a beacon in the dark that signalled their arrival at the prize he’d sought.

 

A sudden thought struck the Gascon as he considered that his friends might still be here because they had not yet completed their mission, placing them in peril as soon as Pritchard realized that the men still held the package he’d been trying to secure. Eyes darting between them, d’Artagnan felt panic take hold in his chest and, despite the threat to his person, he shoved hard at the man on his left, hoping to escape the knife at his other side and to draw the attention of his friends to the danger they faced. He careened off the man to his left, only to be shoved back toward the knife at his right, and he barely managed to miss being impaled on the blade as he righted himself and took off running while the men were surprised.

 

He barrelled directly at his friends, the men having noticed him and Athos and Aramis already drawing their pistols to protect him from attack from behind. As soon as he reached them, Porthos pulled him behind the other two, the men closing ranks to protect him. They waited only seconds before Athos pointed at the ship and the four men took off running again, heading for the gangplank and thundering across it to land on the deck, all three firing their shots to cover their escape. They dropped down behind the gunwale, Athos and Aramis already reloading while Porthos sawed through the ropes that held d’Artagnan’s arms behind him. Seconds later the Gascon was free, bringing his arms stiffly forward to brace his left arm in his right, the pain in his joint reawakened with the movement. He sat on the deck, leaning against the ship’s side as the other three peered over the gunwale at Pritchard and his men.

 

“Who goes there?” a voice demanded making d’Artagnan look up sharply at a man who was coming up from below decks and now aimed a pistol at his stomach. He did his best to raise his arms in surrender as he hissed to his friends, but he only managed to lift his right one, the left lying limply in his lap.

 

“Athos, I think we have a problem.” As the older Musketeer looked over at him, the Gascon motioned his head in the direction of their newest enemy.

 

When Athos realized the danger, he turned around fully to face the man, holding his pistol up so it would not be considered a threat to the man. “We are King’s Musketeer’s with a delivery from his Majesty, the King of France.”

 

The man looked at them narrowly as he asked, “How do I know you’re really Musketeers?”

 

Athos turned slightly to display the pauldron that sat on his shoulder and the man across from him gave a short nod. Moving quickly, the man joined them on deck, staying low to avoid getting shot from the docks. “How many?” he asked.

 

The older Musketeer glanced at d’Artagnan to provide the answer, “Five. A man named Pritchard and his men who have been harassing us since Paris and mean to take the package we’re supposed to deliver.”

 

The man nodded thoughtfully, “No surprise there. The Queen’s not that popular and the rebels will do anything to weaken her position, including hiring mercenaries to prevent her from receiving aid from her brother.”

 

“Athos,” Aramis called, an underlying sense of urgency in his tone.

 

Pritchard and his men were advancing, planning to rush them and overrun their position.

 

A quick look over the gunwale had the man on the ship looking at them in disbelief, “Thought you said there were five of them?”

 

“There were,” d’Artagnan gritted out, shocked and angry to find out that the man had been able to rally more troops and now outnumbered them two to one.

 

“Do you have more men on the ship?” Athos asked, not liking their odds.

 

The man gave a quick shake of his head, “No, the Ambassador sent everyone away except me and his valet to make his meals. The Ambassador will defend himself if it comes to that, but his man won’t be any use to us.”

 

“Why’d he sent everyone away?” Porthos asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

The man grinned at him as he said, “More discrete. I was to call ‘em back once the delivery had been made so we could set sail back to England.”

 

“Perhaps we could discuss the Ambassador’s poor decision later,” Aramis suggested with a tight smile, the anxiety clear in his expression. “Right now, I believe we’d better prepare to fight.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, eyes darting across the deck of the ship and then landing momentarily on the Gascon, who even now slumped against the bulwark, his unusually pale features helping the older man make the difficult decision of sending the boy away.

 

“d’Artagnan, I want you to go below decks with…” he paused, looking to the man who’d joined them, waiting for a name.

 

“Bertrand,” he supplied.

 

“With Bertrand. You’ll take the package with you and be the final line of defense if these men should get past us. Do what you can to protect it and the Ambassador,” Athos ordered.

 

The Gascon’s eyes widened in incredulity as he stammered, “What…no, I can’t…” First Athos had been unwilling to forgive him and now the man was sending him away, as though he were a young boy in need of protection. “I should be here, with you, not cowering below decks.”

 

“We need someone to safeguard the package, d’Artagnan. This is not meant to remove you from harm’s way but rather to act as our back-up plan if we should fail to stop Pritchard and his men,” Athos countered, seeing the doubt still shining in his protégé’s eyes. In truth, the Gascon was correct in his conclusion that Athos wanted to protect him, but it was also true that his order would accomplish the secondary goal of keeping the package out of Pritchard’s hands. “That’s an order, d’Artagnan,” Athos stated in his hardest tone, and he could see the defeat in the young man’s eyes at his words, but steeled his heart against it, needing first to focus on getting them out of their current predicament alive.

 

d’Artagnan’s mind was reeling at his mentor’s words; if the Musketeers fell against greater odds then he should be at their sides, not hiding below decks where it was safe. Athos’ suggestion of a back-up plan was absurd in the young man’s mind, since he had neither pistol nor sword with which to defend himself if the men got past his friends. But the moment for him to protest was suddenly gone as he was being hauled to his feet by Bertrand, Aramis thrusting the bag that held their delivery at him, and before he knew it, he was being led through a hatch and below decks. He clutched the bag tightly to his chest, ignoring the pain of the burns and wondering what the package could possibly contain to have caused the deaths of so many.

 

They moved through another hatch, Bertrand moving nimbly and d’Artagnan doing his best to stay on his feet in the scantily lit bowels of the ship. He shivered involuntarily as he passed by a lantern and noticed the dampness of the wooden hull. Bertrand noticed his reaction and offered a short comment, “We’re below the waterline.” The knowledge that they now had thousands of litres of water pressing against the sides of the ship did nothing to assuage the Gascon’s anxiety and he pulled his eyes away from the wood, focusing on the man he followed instead.

 

They slipped through several more sections before Bertrand finally came to a halt in front of a stateroom door, knocking perfunctorily before pushing it open and entering. d’Artagnan followed him in to find a well-dressed, graying man sitting at a small writing table who rose when Bertrand entered. “Ambassador, this man is a King’s Musketeer and carries the package you were expecting.” The man gave d’Artagnan a cursory glance, extending his hands for the bag, which the Musketeer handed over gladly. He set the bag on top of the desk and turned to Bertrand, apparently having little interest in the Gascon.

 

“Make arrangements for the crew to return so we can sail with the tide,” the Ambassador ordered, already preparing to return to his seat.

 

“Ambassador, there has been some trouble and there are mercenaries currently trying to storm the ship. There are more Musketeers on deck trying to repel them, however it would be prudent to arm yourself,” Bertrand advised.

 

The Ambassador’s expression turned to one of disgust, and d’Artagnan wondered if the man was too daft to realize the amount of trouble they were in rather than seeing the bandits’ presence as an inconvenience to his plans. With a slight wave of his hand, the man nodded, “Alright, Bertrand. Find my man and send him here and I’ll have my pistol ready.”

 

With a perceptive glance at d’Artagnan, Bertrand spoke again, “Ambassador, this man was…disarmed during an earlier skirmish with these men. Perhaps he could borrow one of your swords?”

 

Both men looked at Bertrand in surprise, but the Ambassador gave a nod and motioned to two blades that hung suspended on one wall. With a quick nod of thanks, d’Artagnan stepped forward and pulled one of the swords free, weighing the weapon for a moment in his hand to get a feel for the unfamiliar blade.

 

He followed Bertrand out of the room, “I’ll go back this way and find a place to stand guard while you find the Ambassador’s man.” The two parted and d’Artagnan retraced his steps, trying his best to remember the route they’d followed into the bowels of the ship. When he’d found a spot that he considered defensible, offering him both the protection of a bulkhead and a view of the passage that led away from him, he stopped.

 

Leaning against the hull, he took a moment to gather himself, having had no opportunity earlier as he’d been pushed to and fro, first by Pritchard’s men, then by his friends and lastly by Bertrand as they’d ducked below. Now that he had some time to think, he could feel his injuries coming back in full force and he ruthlessly pushed the pain aside, needing to stay focused on his task.

 

Somewhere above him, his friends were fighting for their lives, and not knowing how they were faring was nearly worse than the soreness of his body. He would never be able to live with himself if the men were killed without him by their sides, and the thought was almost enough to make him leave his post, rushing back up to help his fellow Musketeers. Only duty made his feet stay firm, seemingly rooted to the spot where he stood, waiting anxiously for any sign that would indicate how his brothers were faring.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos and Athos stopped a few feet away and turned to look at him, casting inquisitive expressions his way. “Does anyone else feel like the floor is tilting?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support and wonderful comments on this story. Hope you enjoy this next part.

Pritchard’s men had been on them seconds after the Gascon had disappeared below and Athos sighed in relief at the knowledge that the boy would be safe, if only for a short while, as they battled against the overwhelming odds. The three friends had shifted their positions slightly, Aramis moving to a spot that gave him a direct line of sight to the gangplank and allowed him to pick off the first few men who appeared with well-placed shots. Porthos and Athos were hidden on either sides of the entryway, knowing that the first person the men would see would be the sharpshooter, hopefully buying them a few moments of time in which they could surprise their attackers as they charged on board.

 

They reduced the number of attackers by half in this fashion, pulling their swords once their pistols had been spent, and wading into the fray that had erupted as the men finished boarding. Porthos was quick to strike a man in the head with his firearm, overbalancing the bandit and sending him plummeting off the side of the ship. He wasted no time checking to see if the man had survived as he turned to meet another’s blade. As he parried a strike aimed at his side, he caught a glimpse of Aramis throwing himself to one side, followed almost immediately by the sound of gunfire, and concluded that the man had been moving out of the way of the shot. A returning slash at his opponent gave him the opportunity for a second look that confirmed the Spaniard was on his feet and fighting with a foe of his own. Porthos grinned in satisfaction at his friend’s prowess and threw himself forward with renewed energy, carefully guarding his right side and his broken arm, needing the fight to be over quickly before his flagging energy vanished.

 

Porthos was not the only one struggling and Athos was panting heavily after dispatching one man and mortally wounding another. His current adversary was very good with a sword and the older man was having difficulty either disarming him or landing a proper blow. It was almost like the man was anticipating his every move and Athos berated himself silently as he realized that he was telegraphing his actions because of the heaviness of his limbs, still not recovered from the illness that had nearly taken his life. With a guttural yell, he lunged forward, placing as much of his energy into the strike as he could muster, managing to push the man back a step. Pressing his advantage, he followed up with a swipe from his main gauche, slicing deeply into the man’s stomach. The man dropped to his knees, a surprised look on his face as he sought mercy in the Musketeer’s eyes, but Athos had none to give him. Closing the gap between them, he brought his blade across the man’s throat, permanently stilling his heart.

 

Staggering back from the dead man, Athos looked around to see Porthos and Aramis engaged with a man each, but it was Pritchard who got his attention as the mercenary darted between all of them and disappeared through the hatch that had most recently swallowed up Bertrand and the young Gascon. Athos’ immediate instinct was to follow but Aramis was yelling at him, pointing to Porthos who’d gone down on one knee, barely holding his blade up to stop the sword that was aimed at his neck. Without a second thought, Athos waded into the battle, while Porthos gratefully collapsed against the bulwark at his back, heaving from the exertion of having to use his subordinate arm to defend himself. It took Athos only a minute or two to finish his man off, ending him at almost the same time as Aramis finished his fight; the time they’d need to defeat their opponents had allowed precious time to pass, which Pritchard could have used to escape anywhere in the ship.

 

Aramis walked toward him, Athos several feet away from where Porthos still sat on the deck, now attempting to push his way to his feet. When Aramis read his friend’s intention, he diverted his path and helped the large man up instead, offering a hand and tugging him upright while his other hand braced his side. Porthos threw him a questioning look, eyes pointedly moving to the wound he knew was covered by the Spaniard’s doublet, but Aramis just shook his head no, asking him to leave it until later. Porthos acquiesced with a tilt of his head, not happy but understanding that now was not the time and the two then headed for Athos who was staring at the hatchway. “Pritchard went below decks,” he said, his voice hoarse and dry, a couple of weak coughs following his words as the act of speaking irritated his raw throat.

 

“I’m sure d’Artagnan is keeping an eye out for anyone following him,” Aramis stated consolingly, longing to believe his assertion just as much as the others did.

 

Athos began to move forward, his friends following, when he stopped abruptly, turning to look at Porthos, “You should stay here in case we missed any of them.”

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged worried looks, understanding what Athos wasn’t saying, _“Aramis has to come with me in case the lad’s been hurt.”_

 

The large Musketeer gave a quick nod in reply, clapping Aramis gently on the back, “Watch out for yourselves down there.”

 

Aramis returned the nod but Athos was already disappearing through the hatch, and the Spaniard had to quicken his step in order to catch up. Before he’d managed to do more than place his feet on the first steps, the ship lurched sideways, slamming his side painfully into the edge of the hatch and pulling a gasp from his throat. He splayed his hands out onto the deck’s surface, his upper body still above the hatch, and tried to hang on, uncertain exactly what was happening. The ship gave another shudder, this time heaving upwards and Aramis lost his fragile grip and dropped down, his last conscious thought of his brothers as he wondered how they were faring while the world tilted around him.

* * *

Waiting and worrying for any indication of how his friends were faring, d’Artagnan got his wish only minutes later as the sound of boots falling heavily on the wooden planks resonated loudly within the enclosed space. The Gascon gripped his sword more tightly, stepping out of the protection of the bulkhead as he prepared to meet his attacker. The approaching man barrelled into him before he had an opportunity to react, and was gone a moment later as d’Artagnan flailed, trying to get his feet under him so he could rise after being thrown against the side of the ship. All of his injuries screamed at him at the abuse, but he forced himself to stand, stumbling after the man who’d knocked him over. As he weaved unsteadily down the passageway, his hand dropped to a point at his side that stung with pain, surprised when he lifted it back up to find it tacky with blood. The sight confused him momentarily until he recalled Pritchard’s man who’d held a knife to his side, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t been as lucky as he’d thought nor managed to avoid the blade when he’d run off.

 

There was no time to worry about the wound now and he pressed forward, intent on pursuing his quarry. Fortunately, he didn’t have far to go and spotted the open door to the Ambassador’s stateroom ahead of him, slowing his pace so he didn’t draw attention to himself. He could hear voices inside and recognized Pritchard’s, the man demanding the package they’d delivered and the Ambassador refusing to give it up. He inched forward, back pressed against the wood, until he could see the rebel’s back to him as he continued to speak with the Ambassador. Drawing a deep breath, d’Artagnan stepped forward, sword pointed at the man who’d now captured and tortured him twice. “Pritchard,” he called, waiting for the man to turn around.

 

The man in front of him tensed but didn’t turn, continuing to stare at the Ambassador instead. “Is that you, little Musketeer?” The man’s voice dripped with condescension and d’Artagnan gritted his teeth against the retort that threatened to escape.

 

Adopting a calmness that he didn’t feel, the Gascon chose his words carefully, “It’s over, Pritchard, you’re alone and outnumbered and I have a sword pointed at your back. If you so much as twitch the wrong way, I’ll run you through.”

 

The man’s voice when he spoke, carried a sense of satisfaction that made the young man frown, “Are you so certain of your position, Musketeer?”

 

“What are you talking about, Pritchard?” d’Artagnan demanded, a sixth sense warning him that something was about to go very badly.

 

“If I do not return within the next two minutes, this ship will become a grave to us all,” the bandit said confidently.

 

“What do you mean?” He poked at the man’s back lightly with the sword to encourage him to speak. “What have you done?”

 

“There is enough gunpowder on this ship to sink her and,” he looked over his shoulder at the Musketeer, “everyone aboard her.” Turning back to the Ambassador, his tone turned hard as he demanded, “Now, give me the package and let me walk away and both of you can survive this little adventure.”

 

The Ambassador was licking his lips nervously, and the Gascon knew he was about to give in to Pritchard’s demands, something that he could not allow to happen. Not giving the diplomat a chance to speak, he jumped in, “No, Pritchard, we will not be fooled by your bluff. There was no opportunity for you to do as you’ve described so we’re going to head back up to join my friends.”

 

Pritchard turned sideways, allowing him to meet the Gascon’s eyes as he smiled, “I have friends too, you know. Besides, what makes you think your men are still alive? How did I get down here unless they’re dead?”

 

d’Artagnan’s mind raced at the implication of the man’s words, his eyes drifting to the Ambassador’s as panic began to grip his heart. Could Pritchard be telling the truth and his friends were already lying above decks dead, their bodies cooling as their blood stilled? The thought made his heartrate spike and he ruthlessly quashed it, needing all his wits about him to deal with the current situation. “Where’s Bertrand?” he asked, forcing his voice to stay level and not give away his fear. The Ambassador was caught off guard by the question and shrugged, unable to answer because he did not know.

 

“Alright, we’re all going to leave now. Pritchard, move out of the way and let the Ambassador pass,” d’Artagnan ordered, keeping his sword up as the man did as he’d been told, and the diplomat moved out, swiftly walking down the passageway that would lead him topside. “Now you, and don’t try anything; I’ll have this blade at your back the entire time.”

 

Pritchard began following the path the Ambassador had taken, but moving far more slowly than he had. “Tick tock, Musketeer. Are you so ready to die for a package that goes to a foreign royal?” he goaded.

 

d’Artagnan pressed the sword more firmly between the man’s shoulder blades as he answered, “That foreign royal is the sister of my King, so I suppose the answer to that would be yes.”

 

Pritchard continued forward, seeming to slow even further and the Gascon prodded him again with the sword. Suddenly the rebel stopped, turning to face the Musketeer as he pushed his back against the hull. Moments later, d’Artagnan’s world shifted violently, the decking beneath his feet seeming to erupt and he was thrown upwards and then sideways, crashing against unforgiving wood and falling to the deck stunned. Seconds passed and then debris rained down on him from above and he had one last lucid moment of thought before something hard struck his head and the world around him disappeared.

* * *

Porthos’ eyes had widened in disbelief as he’d felt the forceful jarring of the ship, not once but twice, and watched the effect on his friend as Aramis had tried to hold on and then vanished below, falling through the hatch. The large Musketeer had been tossed sideways with the first movement of the ship, slamming into the bulwark and then falling to the deck, managing to sprawl nearly flat on his belly, which ended up saving him from permanent injury as the ship lurched a second time. He laid there for several long seconds, apprehension warring with worry as he wondered whether it was safe yet to move. Deciding that enough time had passed and he could no longer wait idly by to see if there would be a repeat performance, he gathered himself and pushed carefully to his feet, his injured arm sore but still feeling better than it had when he’d initially broken it, leading him to belief that no additional damage had been done.

 

He made his way to the hatch, kneeling down carefully beside it as he peered inside, the dim light below making it difficult for him to see anything. Taking a steadying breath, he forced himself to move slowly and carefully and positioned his foot on the first step, descending into the interior of the ship. He paused when he’d reached the last step, waiting for his eyes to adjust and then examining the ground beneath his feet to ensure it was safe for him to step down. When he was certain that it was as safe as it could be under the circumstances, he alighted from the ladder and took a step away, looking around for any sign of his friends.

 

He shuffled forward slowly, chastising himself for not having the foresight to bring a lantern and then chuffing out a breath of relief when he spotted one still lit and hanging precariously from a hook a few feet ahead. He made his way there carefully, stepping over and around the small piles of debris that had been shaken loose during the ship’s violent heaving. When he was within reach of the lantern, his eyes spotted a familiar bundle up against one wall of the compartment he stood within. His heart gave a lurch as he recognized the bundle as Aramis and he tugged the lantern free and then moved over to his friend, sinking carefully to his knees before placing the lamp down at his side.

 

Reaching his hand forward, Porthos sought the reassuring beat of the Spaniard’s heart, placing a finger at the man’s throat and waiting for one heartbeat and then another before he recognized the familiar thump that confirmed Aramis lived. The sharpshooter lay partially on his side with his back against the wall, and Porthos was able to see a trickle of red winding its way down the man’s forehead. “Aramis,” he called, placing his hand on the man’s cheek and tapping it lightly to bring him to awareness. “Aramis, open your eyes.”

 

The band around Porthos’ heart loosened as Aramis’ eyes fluttered immediately, the fact that he was able to wake so quickly a very positive sign. When the Spaniard was able to pry his lids open, he blinked several times, confused at the odd visual that greeted him. “P’thos?” he slurred before coughing at the dust that still hung in the air around them.

 

“Yeah, Aramis, it’s me,” the large man confirmed with a grin. “Are you alright?”

 

Aramis nodded even without thinking and then stopped and moaned as the action made his head throb dully with pain. Reaching a shaky hand up, he felt the tender spot at his temple, the touch of his fingers simply making it hurt more. “Ouch,” he said as he let his hand drop.

 

“Yeah, looks like you hit your head,” Porthos confirmed. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”

 

Aramis took a quick inventory of himself, but it was difficult to think clearly while lying on the deck so he decided to push himself up to sit instead. His vision wavered as he did so, missing his friend’s look of concern. He held himself still for a few seconds while his body adjusted and then gave Porthos a small smile as he said, “That’s better.” He felt the sharp ache in his right side where he’d hit the edge of the hatch but didn’t want to worry Porthos any further. “I don’t seem to be in any worse condition than before,” he said. As the large man nodded in relief, Aramis looked past him at the debris that littered the floor and realized that Athos and d’Artagnan were nowhere in sight. “The others?” he asked, concern evident in his tone.

 

“Not sure, you were the first one I found,” Porthos admitted, just as anxious to find the other two men now that Aramis seemed to have collected himself.

 

Aramis squinted at his friend for a moment before he tried to stand, “Any injuries I should be aware of?”

 

Porthos picked up the lantern again and then led the way deeper into the ship, “I’m fine, Aramis. Just some new bruises that you can rub salve into later.”

 

The medic gave a nod and continued to follow his friend, “Any idea what happened?”

 

Porthos shook his head, “Could we have been hit by another ship?”

 

“I suppose it’s possible, but surely you would have seen something if that had been the case,” Aramis countered.

 

As they made their way deeper into the bowels of the ship, the amount of rubbish increased, items from the walls having been shaken loose from their fastenings and everything having been covered with a layer of dirt that had rained down from the main deck. “Aramis,” Porthos voice caught for a moment as he lifted the lantern higher so his friend could see the man lying ahead of them.

 

The medic pushed his way past the other man and moved quickly to Athos’ side, the older Musketeer lying on his back unconscious, but with no apparent injuries visible. Aramis dropped to his haunches next to the man and began by searching Athos’ skull, finding a tell-tale bump almost immediately at the back of his head. “He either struck his head or was struck by something,” the medic explained to Porthos, hands continuing to move across Athos’ torso, arms and legs, spotting no other areas of concern. “Athos, wake up my friend,” he shook the man’s shoulder slightly to encourage him to return to awareness. “Our young Gascon is still missing and we need your help to find him.”

 

He was rewarded with a low groan and Aramis grinned faintly at the knowledge that his friend was waking. “Come on, Athos, you’ve been lying about long enough.”

 

“There better have been wine involved if my head hurts this badly,” Athos replied, his voice low and his eyes closed in deference to his aching skull.

 

“Sadly, no, but I’ll happily give you something for your headache once we’ve found d’Artagnan,” Aramis humoured him.

 

The Gascon’s name registered and Athos immediately began to push himself upright, accomplishing it with a helping hand from each of his friends, needing a moment to steady himself once he was standing. “What happened?” he asked, looking around, breaking off for a moment to cough as the lingering dust in the air aggravated his throat and lungs.

 

“Not sure,” Porthos confessed, “but we need to find the boy. No tellin’ how much trouble he managed to find on his own.” He stepped back into the lead so he could light the way, Aramis and Athos falling in behind him.

 

They reached another hatch and traded silent looks, agreeing that there was a good chance the Gascon had gone further into the ship. The deeper they moved, the greater the destruction and the men wondered again at what had caused all the damage. As they walked, Aramis put a hand on the wall, pulling it away when he felt the dampness and then coming to a stop moments later. Porthos and Athos stopped a few feet away and turned to look at him, casting inquisitive expressions his way. “Does anyone else feel like the floor is tilting?”

 

Both men looked to the decking beneath their feet and then down the passage they’d just travelled before Athos moved to the wall and stood up against it, confirming what Aramis had suggested – the ground beneath them had a definite slant to one side. Athos’ mind raced with the implication of their discovery, landing on the only possible solution at the same time as the others. “We’re sinking,” he stated with absolute certainty, the horror of his conclusion reflected in the expressions of his friends. The ship held one of their own captive and they knew not where, and now time was of the essence; they had to find the young man before the vessel completed its sideways plunge and was lost to the cold, black waters below.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were sinking and there was nothing he could other than wait and pray that rescue arrived in time to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments on the last chapter, especially about Athos' words about the wine. I'd like to say sorry about the cliffhanger last time, but there's another one ahead. Hope you enjoy!

He couldn’t see or hear anything and the absence of sight and sound seemed oppressive, making his adrenaline spike with the fear that he might be blind and deaf. He could feel his chest rising and falling but was unable to hear the sounds of his laboured breaths, something he knew to be a fact because he could feel how difficult it was to pull in each successive inhale. He forced his ribcage to expand further than it had been and felt a spike of hot, fiery pain shoot through his left shoulder, the agony expanding down through his entire left side, making him feel nauseas with its intensity. The resulting ache had him breaking out in a cold sweat and he groaned in discomfort, feeling the sound resonate within his chest but not able to hear it.

 

He blinked several times, attempting to clear the moisture that had pooled in his eyes after his mistaken attempt to breathe more deeply, and began to realize that the darkness around him was composed of different shades of black. Closest to him was the darkest hue, but as his gaze moved further out, he could make out a hint of gray that suggested his vision might not impaired after all. The sudden relief made his limbs weaken and relax, lying more heavily upon the wood beneath him.

 

The discovery of lightness in the distance sparked a strong urge to move toward it and he tried to lift himself up, only to find a heavy weight pressing him down, making it impossible for him to attain an upright position. The realization was accompanied by a second one, specifically the fact that whatever held him in place also rested against his sore shoulder. The act of moving nearly split him open with pain as the ache in his shoulder intensified and pulled a guttural yell from his chest, something he was surprised to hear, even though the sound was hollow and echoed through his head as though he was under water. It took him several minutes to recover and when his breathing had returned to its previous short, shallow intakes, he tried again, this time testing his ability to move various parts of his body instead. He could lift his head partially upward, but the cost to him was great and he dropped it back to the ground not even a second after he’d begun to move, feeling the throb in his shoulder and neck pulsing dangerously once more.  

 

His arms were next, his left one numb and unresponsive to any commands he sent it to move, his right free and without pain and he pulled it shakily up to confirm his capacity to move it. He traced the weight of whatever pinned him in place, feeling roughly hewn wood beneath his fingers laying across his body diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. Pushing against it did nothing and he concluded that it must be fairly heavy and was responsible for his inability to take a full breath. His legs came next and he was glad to find that he could feel no severe pain and was able to wiggle his toes, concluding that he’d suffered nothing more than possibly bruises below his waist.

 

His self-examination finished, he returned his mind to his current predicament; he was in the dark, trapped, and alone…was he alone? He wracked his brain as he tried to recall the events that had placed him in his current position, making his head ache abominably and he concluded that he must have struck it at some point. Closing his eyes in concentration, he was unaware when he began to worry his bottom lip, a common occurrence for the Gascon when he was deep in thought.

 

Images began to return and he grasped onto them tightly, piecing together what had happened. There was a ship and a package, which he and his friends had delivered. No, he had delivered it alone…but why?  Mercenaries had pursued them and he’d been captured but then had escaped. On the ship there had been another man…Bernard, no, Bertrand. He recalled the Ambassador’s disdain when he’d been informed of their attackers…Pritchard, that was his name. Pritchard!

 

The name released the floodgate of memories that his jumbled mind had been attempting to evoke; the man had run past him and made it to the Ambassador’s cabin, where d’Artagnan had gotten the upper hand and had forced the man to release his hostage. They’d followed on the diplomat’s heels, Pritchard making empty threats about blowing up the ship. He’d slowed more and more as they’d walked until a roar of sound had overwhelmed his senses and his body had been tossed around like a ragdoll within the confines of the corridor. Given his current position, it had obviously not been a bluff and Pritchard had in fact detonated a supply of gunpowder on the ship. Then why was he still alive?

 

Was it possible that the man had underestimated what was required to destroy the vessel? How close had they been to the gunpowder when it had ignited? Most importantly, had the man survived the catastrophe he’d created or was he trapped as d’Artagnan was, waiting for aid to arrive? The questions made his head spin but he recognized the potential perilousness of his situation, with no ability to flee or protect himself if the need arose. He brought his right hand down to his side again, using it to pick through the rubble that surrounded him, hoping for anything that he could use to defend himself. As his hand scrabbled around, he failed to notice how the blackness was receding, nor how his hearing was slowly improving, the noise of his efforts reaching his ears.

 

“Well, well, little Musketeer, I didn’t expect you to survive,” Pritchard gloated.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes jerked up sharply, blinking away the spots in his vision as the man raised a lantern above his head, casting him in shadow while illuminating his silhouette. The Gascon was stunned not only to hear the man’s words, but to see his nemesis alive and standing over him. “You,” he began, breaking off as the air caught painfully in his dry throat, making him cough and his chest and shoulder throb. Struggling for breath he tried again, annoyed at how weak his voice sounded, “You survived.”

 

“You have a talent for stating the obvious, Musketeer,” the mercenary stated, his voice turning hard. “You’ve caused me a lot of trouble in what should have been a relatively straightforward mission.”

 

“What mission?” the Gascon wheezed out, swallowing thickly at the dust that coated his throat and tongue.

 

“To keep France’s charity out of the hands of England’s Queen, of course,” he replied as though it should be obvious.

 

“Why?” d’Artagnan asked, hoping that if he kept the man talking long enough, help would come. At the same time, he kept his right hand searching for something to use as a weapon, keeping his movements slow and careful so Pritchard would not notice.

 

“Why?” Pritchard roared at him in obvious disdain. “A French Queen sitting at the side of an English King is a mockery. The King does not love her and neither do his people. By providing funds to her, all King Louis does is extend the suffering of the English people. If the Queen is bankrupt, she will have no further sway with the King and will be removed, freeing him to make a more suitable match.”

 

d’Artagnan was shocked at the man’s reasoning and couldn’t help the comment that escaped before he had a chance to censor himself, “Are you mad? The King cannot remove the Queen simply because of her finances. It is his responsibility now to support his wife and they can only be parted by death.”

 

Pritchard moved closer at hearing the Gascon’s words, the lantern he’d held above his head dropping slightly to illuminate the fury painted on his face. “It doesn’t matter what you think. By sinking this ship, I’ve prevented the package from reaching England and another of your delivery attempts has failed.”

 

The Gascon’s features paled as he processed Pritchard’s words, “What do you mean, sinking? The ship’s still afloat.”

 

Pritchard leered at him, the twisted joy clear on his face at what he’d accomplished. “For now, little Musketeer, but not for much longer. Can’t you feel how the ship lists to the side?” he asked, watching d’Artagnan carefully for the moment when he realized the truth of his words. The Gascon’s eyes widened in fear; he was held fast by the beam that pinned him and, if the mercenary’s words were true, he would have no hope of escaping before the ship succumbed to the damage the man had caused. “Ah, I can see that you’ve realized the seriousness of your predicament,” the man’s face again lit up with glee.

 

d’Artagnan felt the edge of something sharp lying partially buried beneath him and tried to get a grip on it with his right hand as he continued to keep Pritchard’s attention, “You don’t seem the type to want to go down with the ship, to me.”

 

The man snorted in amusement, “You’re correct, little Musketeer. I will die one day but that day will not be today. You, on the other hand…” he trailed off, his intent clear.

 

“I take it that means you won’t be helping me out of here?” d’Artagnan went on, his fingers now tugging at the sharp object that he’d discovered, even as the man above him shook his head no. “That seems somewhat uncharitable, condemning me to death by drowning.”

 

Pritchard’s expression seemed to shift and the Gascon tugged harder, freeing the object and allowing him to grasp it in his hand, realizing belatedly that he’d found the top portion of the sword he’d borrowed earlier, the sides of which now sliced into his palm and fingers as he gripped it tightly. “Alright, I’m not a heartless man,” Pritchard spoke and d’Artagnan had to work hard to keep his expression neutral at the man’s words. “I’ll put you out of your misery before I make my way topside,” he finished with a wide grin, his other hand already lifting the sword he held.

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes widened in panic as he watched the man prepare to run him through and he moved with a strength borne of desperation, shifting his grip on the piece of steel he held and bringing his arm up so it was clear of the beam that covered him. With a quick prayer, he threw the sword tip at his attacker, the six-inch piece of steel embedding itself deeply in the man’s stomach. Pritchard’s face wore an expression of shocked amazement and he teetered on his feet for several moments before sinking to his knees, a gasp of pain pulled from him as he fell to his side.

 

The man had fallen out of d’Artagnan’s line of sight and he had no way of knowing if the man was still alive, aware from experience that stomach wounds were a slow and incredibly painful way to die. He tried to calm his breathing as much as possible, listening for any sounds that would indicate the man still lived, and was rewarded moments later when a groan reached his ears. He lay there quietly, uncertain of what he could do, his circumstances unchanged since Pritchard’s arrival, leaving him once more dependent on rescue, hopefully by his friends. As his mind began to drift, he registered a new noise, something that sounded like light chuffing and he finally recognized it as weak laughter.

 

As his brow furrowed in confusion, the mercenary began to speak, his voice breathless and weak, “Looks like it’s death by drowning after all, Musketeer.” He broke off to pant for several breaths, releasing another low moan. “I can feel the water beneath me already.” The breathy laughter began again, interrupted by another sound of pain and d’Artagnan felt the icy grip of fear take hold in his chest, the thought of drowning inconceivable to him.

 

Dropping his hand down to his side, he concentrated on the sensations beneath his fingers and his breathing hitched as he felt the cold wetness there. Pritchard had told the truth; they were sinking and there was nothing he could other than wait and pray that rescue arrived in time to save him. 

* * *

The three friends moved down the passageways and through the sinking ship as swiftly as they were able, hampered by the pain of their injuries, the lack of light and the increased listing of the ship. On the second deck, the slant was more pronounced than when they’d dropped down to the one underneath and it made their travel a bit easier since they didn’t need to keep a hand pressed to the wall the entire time in order to steady themselves. Athos had taken up the lead position, Porthos giving up the lantern as it had become clear that he’d need his one working arm free.

 

The men fought the desire to run through the ship as quickly as they could, aware that Pritchard could still be somewhere below decks and posed a risk they could not afford to ignore. Athos chafed at the self-imposed slower paced, recalling again the last conversation he’d had with the Gascon and berating himself silently for his stubborn pride which had prevented him from simply accepting the young man’s apology so they might move forward. Instead, he’d allowed his hurt ego to get in the way, knowing that the boy’s words were sincere but not yet ready to forgive so easily after the months of discord that had separated them.

 

Aramis and Porthos had sensed that something more had transpired the night when d’Artagnan had gone missing, and the looks they’d occasionally cast in his direction did nothing more than deepen his own self-loathing, recriminating himself over and over again for not having handled things differently. d’Artagnan had to be alive, Athos decided, navigating his way around another pile of debris in their path. He needed to apologize to the boy for his part in everything; needed a chance to explain how unbalanced he’d felt since Milady’s return and how the only thing that had kept him tethered to reality had been the young man’s presence – until it had been taken away, the Gascon too fed up with his self-destructive ways to waste any more time on him. Athos had no illusions that d’Artagnan would accept his apology or even hear his explanation, but he would try regardless and for that attempt to occur, they had to find the young man alive.

 

Around them the ship creaked ominously and had Aramis and Porthos trading looks of concern, neither of them wanting to get trapped on the ship as it sank, any more than they wanted that fate for their young friend. It was an obvious conclusion at this point that d’Artagnan was unable to leave the ship on his own, since he would have done so by now as the Ambassador had when they’d passed the man earlier, and the three pointedly refused to speculate as to the reasons for his continued absence. The decking beneath their feet lurched and the slant became more pronounced, forcing the men to again place a hand against the wall to maintain their balance.

 

Up ahead, Athos had spotted a faint light, needing to double-check before confirming that it was not just a trick his eyes were playing on him. He slowed his pace until his friends had joined him and then pointed ahead to where a faint glow could be seen, dancing in the dark. They moved forward more cautiously now, uncertain of what dangers lay ahead of them. They had approached within a few steps of the discarded lantern when Athos’ breath caught in his throat, recognizing the shape of a man lying on the deck in front of him.

 

Seeing his distress, Aramis slipped by him, taking another tentative step forward and picking up the second lantern so he could lift it up and better illuminate the space. A man was sprawled ahead of them, his limbs loose, his breaths coming in short, painful gasps, and as Aramis ran his eyes over the man, he found the source of the man’s troubles, the end of a steel blade sticking up grotesquely between the man’s lax hands. It was certain that this man was dying, but encouraging that he was not d’Artagnan. With that realization, both men lifted their lanterns higher, turning slowly in the confined space for any sign of their missing comrade.

 

It was Aramis’ keen sight that spotted the man first, nearly completely obscured by the wooden beam that rested across him. He moved forward, absently handing his lantern to Porthos, needing both hands free to examine the young man. Dropping carefully to his knees, momentarily bracing his aching side, he reached a hand forward to check for a pulse, being careful not to place any additional pressure on the large piece of wood. At the medic’s touch, d’Artagnan’s eyes flew open, searching immediately for the source of the sensation, his last memory of Pritchard trying to kill him.

 

“Peace, d’Artagnan, it’s Aramis,” the man soothed, placing his hand on the young man’s cheek and turning the Gascon’s head carefully toward him.

 

d’Artagnan blinked several times, licking his dry lips before speaking, “Aramis, is it really you?” A part of him had been resigned to his watery death, and his friend’s appearance, while incredibly welcome, was also a surprise.     

 

Aramis’ face split into a wide grin as he answered, “Of course, it’s me. Who else do you know who’s this handsome?”

 

The comment pulled a wheeze of laughter that turned into a groan, as d’Artagnan was reminded of the weight on his chest. “Gonna need a little help,” he said, his right hand flopping to indicate the beam.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have that off of you in no time,” Aramis promised, preparing to rise.

 

The Gascon caught his arm before he could stand, “The ship’s sinking.”

 

Aramis’ face softened with compassion, “We know, d’Artagnan. We’ll have you out of here before that becomes a concern.”

 

In truth, none of them knew how badly the ship was damaged, not having seen the actual breach in the hull or having any experience in these matters, but all of them were committed to doing whatever was necessary to free their young friend. The Gascon gave a short nod in return and released the medic’s hand, allowing him to gain his feet and move a couple feet away to speak with his friends. His voice was low as he said, “The water’s already rising in here and he’s lying in a couple inches of it.”

 

The men traded looks silently, none of them in top condition to perform such a rescue, but none of them willing to leave the boy to his fate. After several seconds, Athos gave a tilt of his head, “Then we should make haste. We’ve no idea how long this passage will remain relatively free of water.”

 

Porthos and Athos stepped forward to examine the beam while Aramis returned to squat at d’Artagnan’s side. “Once we have you free, we’ll need to move quickly, but first I need to know how badly you’re hurt.”

 

d’Artagnan’s eyes drifted to Athos, the older man focused on identifying how best to free him, and the Gascon pulled his gaze back to the medic with effort, his heart plummeting at the lack of acknowledgement he’d so far received from the older man. Swallowing with difficulty, he said, “My left shoulder hurts and I can’t move my arm. It’s hard to breathe but that’s probably because of this thing on top of me. My head aches but I should be able to move when it’s time.” He words ended with a shudder as his mind catalogued how cold he’d become, the water beneath him soaking through his clothes and chilling his skin.

 

Aramis gave him a look that asked for permission and he gave a slight nod, the medic moving his hands to feel around the young man’s skull. “You’ve probably dislocated that shoulder again,” he commented as he discovered a lump at the back of the boy’s head.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head, “Feels different this time. Burns and my whole side aches.” Aramis frowned at the description but could do nothing more until they’d freed the Gascon.

 

“We’re ready,” Porthos interrupted, offering a hand to Aramis to pull him to his feet. “It’ll take all three of us but we should have it off in a moment.” The last part of his comment was directed at d’Artagnan and he winked to the young man as he spoke, causing him to smile.

 

The three positioned themselves and counted off, straining their muscles as they tried to lift the beam free but it remained firmly in place. Releasing their grips, Porthos moved to one end, shifting some of the debris around with his foot before crouching down for a better look. “I need more light here,” he said and Athos lifted his lantern obligingly. One end of the beam had gone through the wall, trapping it there firmly while also saving d’Artagnan’s life, since the full weight of the wood didn’t rest on the young man’s chest.

 

“This could be a bit of a problem,” Porthos stated quietly, looking up at his two friends. Instead of simply lifting the beam away, they would need to pull it free from the wall, while at the same time preventing its full weight from settling on the Gascon. Next, it would need to be lifted away from the boy so they could free him, creating a much more difficult manoeuver for them to now execute.

 

The positioned themselves once more, with Athos and Aramis set to pull the beam from the wall, while Porthos’ one arm would primarily be lifting the weight upwards. After a silent count, they started once more, straining to budge the wood that conspired to keep d’Artagnan on the sinking vessel. They made several attempts, shifting their grips and changing positions, but when they’d finished, the beam was still firmly lodged in place and the three men’s chests were heaving from their efforts.

 

d’Artagnan had stayed quiet as the three men had worked, doing his best to stifle the shivers that were nearly continuous now that his brain had registered the cold. It was becoming apparent that the men might not succeed and he cleared his throat as he observed how drained his friends were from their attempts to free him. “It’s not working, is it?” he asked, pleased to hear how steady his voice sounded. The three traded glances, none of them willing to admit that they might fail the young man. “It’s alright,” the Gascon continued, “I know you did your best.”

 

The acceptance in the young man’s words had Athos speaking without thought as he turned on the boy and declared, “No, it’s not alright.” His tone was broken and all of them could see the toll that the current situation was taking on the older man. “We _will_ get you out of here; it will just take time.”

 

d’Artagnan gave him a sad smile as he brought his hand down to his right side, slapping it against the water that sat there. Another shiver racked him and he closed his eyes for a moment before calming his voice, “It’s still rising, Athos. I’m afraid time is a commodity of which I’m running short.”

 

The men looked down at their feet at the young man’s comment, having been so focused on moving the piece of timbre that they hadn’t noticed how much water had crept in. Now that their attention had been called to it, they realized in consternation that their feet were covered, the water sitting just below their ankles. A look back to d’Artagnan had Aramis cursing as he saw the water lapping at the boy’s ears, his reclining position on the deck meaning he would drown long before the passageway was filled. He began to move forward, but was intercepted by Athos, the older man placing a gentle hand on his chest before stepping in front of him to go kneel in the water at the young man’s head. d’Artagnan tried to look at his mentor, but the position made it difficult and he gave up almost immediately, surprised moments later to feel someone lifting his head up.

 

The movement pulled a gasp of pain from him as it jarred his shoulder, but he breathed through it and waited for the agony to relent. When he could speak again, he asked, “What are you doing?”

 

“Buying you more time,” Athos replied evenly, keeping the panic from his voice even though it was clearly written on his face. “Aramis and Porthos are going to find a way to remove that beam and I’m going to keep your head out of the water while they do.” The Gascon began to shake his head, knowing that they were only prolonging the inevitable, but Athos interrupted him, placing a warm hand on his cold cheek. “No. We will have our chance to speak once this is behind us, so you will let us do what we must in order to free you.” He paused for a moment to let his words sink in. “Your only job is to survive.”

 

Athos’ voice caught on the last word and d’Artagnan could feel the amount of fear the man held for him. He could not deny his friend so he gave a shaky nod, promising himself that he would survive for as long as possible, the only question being, would it be enough?


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis’ last words echoed unrelentingly in his brain, pushing him onward – there’s no heartbeat!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments and kudos on the last chapter. Hopefully no one has fallen over the cliff waiting for this next one.

d’Artagnan’s focus began to waver after his friend’s heartfelt plea and his awareness narrowed to the overwhelming cold that encompassed him. It had been easier to ignore before, the ocean’s frigid waters more of an annoyance as they’d first dampened his clothes, but the icy liquid had quickly and insidiously wormed its way inside to touch more and more of his skin, the coldness seeping into his core and making him shiver until he thought he would shake apart with the force of his muscles’ contractions. To make matters worse, the caress of the salty water had made the raw skin of his burns alight with renewed agony and his breaths sped up briefly until the frigid water dulled the fiery sensation.

 

He remembered Athos moving to sit with him to hold his head out of the water, the warmth of his mentor’s hand making the chill of his body all the more evident. The older man had eventually settled down, positioning his knee underneath the young man’s head as a makeshift pillow, his hand shifting to d’Artagnan’s neck and the Gascon wondered idly if he was concerned by the sluggish heartbeat he likely found there as the water’s temperature slowed its pace.

 

He’d vaguely recalled some of what Aramis had told him about the cold but couldn’t muster enough energy to care, oddly calmed by the fact that he would not die alone. Perhaps he would not even be aware when he drowned, the frigid waters doing the job first; it would be a more pleasant end, he decided and he considered closing his eyes and drifting off, feeling incredibly tired and detached from limbs that had long since turned numb from the cold. Without conscious thought, he let his eyes close, unaware of the curse that Athos let loose and of the panicked hand at his cheek, begging with him to stay awake. There was a note of terror in the man’s voice that cut through the fugue that enveloped him and gave him the strength to lift heavy lids, blinking blearily at the man who now leaned over him, desperately waiting to see his dark eyes.

 

“Thank God,” Athos breathed out, having watched as the young man had gone from uncontrollable shivering to a deathly stillness that had him praying to a deity he no longer believed in to spare the young man’s life. He’d been sitting with the Gascon for nearly 10 minutes and was shocked at how quickly his condition was deteriorating, dealing with the icy water as well as he held the boy’s head up.

 

In the short time he’d been siting there, his body had succumbed to frequent shuddering as well, and the water had continued to rise, now beginning to lap at the Gascon’s chest and Athos was confident that if he were not there to help the boy, his face would be submerged under water in minutes. The realization shook Athos to his core, the memories of his own drowning rising unbidden, filling his mind with images of black water, the panic that had gripped him as he’d been unable to reach the surface, and the unyielding pain as he’d breathed liquid instead of air. It had been a terrible experience and one that he was determined would not be shared by the young man.

 

After pleading with d’Artagnan to hold on, Aramis had gone in search of anything they could use to shift the heavy timbre while Porthos had scurried topside to look for help from those on land. Neither one had returned and each second that passed ratcheted the fear in Athos’ gut higher, the thought of sitting by and watching his protégé drown making his heart clench painfully. “d’Artagnan,” he said, hoping to keep the young man awake with conversation, “you must keep your eyes open for me.” He watched as the Gascon struggled to comply, the likelihood that his mind was aware enough to comprehend his words low.

 

Once again, d’Artagnan surprised the older man as he spoke, his words badly slurred and almost too quiet to hear, “M’wake.”

 

The stubbornness that forced the young man to respond brought a rare smile to Athos’ face as he answered, “Yes, you are.” He swallowed, watching as the boy’s lids grew heavy, threatening to close again. “d’Artagnan, I must apologize. Earlier, at the inn…” he trailed off, searching for the right words before realizing that they no longer mattered, the young man’s life measured in minutes and the most important thing now was for him to explain regardless of how he accomplished the task. “I was wrong. I should have accepted your apology when you offered it. You just caught me by surprise and then I wasn’t sure if I could forgive you, but I do.”

 

He saw a ghost of a smile on the Gascon’s face, the chilled muscles making it nearly impossible for him to accomplish the feat but Athos could see it. “S’alright,” he whispered and Athos knew he’d been forgiven, the young man seemingly amused by the stream of sentences that had poured from his lips in such an uncharacteristic fashion.

 

Now, as he looked down at the boy who’d come to mean so much to him, his eyes clouded with tears and he saw the smile on the boy’s face falter, belying a greater awareness than he’d thought possible at this point. “Don’t cry.” He pulled another shuddering breath, even those coming all too infrequently as his body began to shut down. “Doesn’t hurt.” The young man’s eyes slipped closed and Athos’ fingers pressed desperately to his neck, searching for the beat that represented his continued life, taking a quivering breath when he found one.

 

“Athos, I’ve found an axe,” Aramis’ voice made the older man startle badly as the Spaniard slogged through the ever increasing amount of water that surrounded them. Athos gave a shaky nod and Aramis moved immediately to where the beam had crashed through the wall, attacking the wood so they could release the timbre from its position atop the young man.

 

With the first strike of the axe, Aramis bent over nearly double, one hand flying to his side, confirming his earlier suspicion that he’d added cracked or broken ribs to the wound on his flank. It took several long moments for him to realize that someone was speaking to him, and he forced himself upright to throw an annoyed look at his friend. “Aramis, are you alright?” Athos’ face was full of worry, not just for him but for the young man whose life hinged on their ability to pull the beam free.

 

With a grin that Aramis was sure looked more like a grimace, he replied, “Fine, just my side.” He lifted the axe and swung again, a yelp escaping him as he folded once more. This time he had to release his grip on the axe, leaning a hand heavily on the wall as the pain threatened to topple him. Raising his face, now covered in a cold sweat, he turned in anguish to his friend, “I can’t do it.”

 

Athos gave a quick nod as he ordered, “Come, trade places with me.” The Spaniard walked over shakily, cursing as he kneeled in the freezing water and took over the older man’s duty of keeping the Gascon’s head up. Athos struggled to his feet, his legs numb after sitting for so long and having lost the feeling below his knees due to the frigid temperature. Regardless, he pushed himself to walk forward, shuffling more than anything else since it was the best he could manage. He pulled the axe free from where Aramis had left it and applied every ounce of his frustration and anger to the wood that trapped his friend. The hole widened, slowly but surely, even though Athos was trembling with a combination of fatigue and exertion after only a few strikes.

 

The sound of splashing made him pause and look up, seeing Porthos’ anguished face appear, his chest heaving after having run to return to them, “We’re on our own; no one’s willing to board a sinkin’ ship.” Athos merely nodded tiredly and lifted the axe over his head, putting as much of his strength behind the swing as he could, knowing that time was running out. Porthos watched the older man working at the wall, chafing at the fact that his legendary strength could not be applied to the task while his one arm was broken. Further away, Aramis knelt pale-faced, one hand holding his side while the other had taken up residence over the Gascon’s throat, monitoring the weak heartbeat that continued to fade.

 

He was about to ask how d’Artagnan was doing when the world tilted once more, the ship settling further into the water and shifting further to one side. In that moment, several things happened at once as the men were jarred, Porthos staggering against the wall and catching himself with his broken arm, pulling a grunt of pain from his lips. Athos was thrown away from the opposite wall, losing his grip on the axe and falling to his backside in the water. Aramis was pulled away from d’Artagnan and the water rose by several inches, covering the boy’s face and hiding it from view.

 

“No!” Aramis yelled, the first to recover and find their friend now fully underwater. His hands scrambled in the dark liquid, fingers twining into the boy’s hair, pulling upwards, but it wasn’t enough – the water was too high.

 

“Help me,” Athos roared, having lifted himself out of the water and standing back at the beam, already bending down to encircle it in his arms and tug it free with sheer willpower if necessary. Porthos moved forward to help and they tugged at the timbre, shocked when it moved away easily, the water having risen sufficiently to not only free it from the wall where it had been trapped, but to buoy the wood off of their friend. “Aramis, pull him up,” the older man shouted as he and Porthos pushed the offensive piece of wood further away.

 

With a quick tug, d’Artagnan came free, Aramis pulling the young man’s head and shoulders onto his knees, numb fingers already searching for a pulse. He pressed down harder, still not finding the reassuring thrum he’d been searching for and after several seconds, looked up at his friends in horror, “There’s no heartbeat.”

 

Athos was already moving toward him, wading through the knee-deep water to get to his friends. With two heaves, he pulled the Gascon first to a seated position and then onto one shoulder, Aramis already rising while Porthos turned to lead them out. It seemed that the ocean was unwilling to give up its prize and the waters continued to rise quickly, swirling around their legs and hiding numerous obstacles in their path, the men stumbling frequently as they made their way to the top deck.

 

Climbing up through the hatches to move from one deck to the next was nearly Athos’ undoing, his barely-healed lungs struggling for air as he pushed his body beyond its limits, his injured leg threatening to fold as he carried the boy on his shoulders to safety. By the time they’d reached the hatch that would lead them topside, Athos could barely lift his feet onto the rungs and it was only Aramis’ assistance from below that gave him the extra push he needed to reach the top. As he shakily stepped onto the deck, Porthos reached out to steady him, leading him another step away so that Aramis could follow and Athos wanted nothing more than to release his burden and drop, letting his exhausted body have the rest it was craving. But Aramis’ last words echoed unrelentingly in his brain, pushing him onward – _there’s no heartbeat!_

 

He had no idea how they would save the boy, or if it was even possible, but Athos had no doubt that they would do everything in their power to see the young man breathing once more, just as soon as they’d left the sinking ship behind. On the top deck, the older Musketeer could see how badly the ship was listing, the horizon tilting away from them at an odd angle. “Come on!” Porthos shouted at him and Athos didn’t even have enough energy to nod, and just forced himself into motion once more, vaguely aware of Aramis at his other side, pulling him along.

 

The gangplank that connected the vessel to the dock was gone, having been dislodged at some point by the ship’s death throws and they now faced a five foot gap across churning waters, a single misstep promising them a fate that ended in the ocean, likely to be crushed by the hull of the ship as it rocked against the dock. The three traded panicked looks as they saw the gap that separated them from safety and Porthos took the lead, not waiting for one of the others to come up with a plan.

 

“I’ll jump across first. Aramis, I want you to follow me. We’ll have a better chance of catching and bracing them if there’s two of us.” Porthos turned to Athos, noting how the man’s pale face was still firmly locked on the dock, seemingly too far away for them to reach. “Athos, we’ll both be on the other side and we’ll catch you. Take a running start and then jump – you’ll be fine. Can you do this?” The intensity of the large Musketeer’s gaze cut through Athos’ fugue and he nodded sharply, impatient now for them to all be on solid ground.

 

Porthos gave a return nod, captured Aramis’ eye for a moment and then turned and gracefully leapt across the five foot divide. He landed well and moments later had turned and was ready to help Aramis if the man should stumble when he jumped. The Spaniard’s leap was nowhere near as smooth, the ship’s constant motion making it difficult to keep one’s balance, but he landed with both feet firmly planted on the dock. Both men turned to Athos who was eyeing them warily, watching the motion of the vessel as he timed his jump, calculating when the ship would be closest to the dock, providing him with the best chance of success. Taking two long strides, he pushed off the deck and barreled into his friends, the two men catching him and d’Artagnan, immediately moving them further away from the water to a safer location.

 

As soon as they’d arrived at a spot they all deemed safe, Aramis reached for d’Artagnan and the three worked together to lay the Gascon on the ground, the medic’s fingers immediately seeking a heartbeat. Several seconds passed and there was still nothing, the absence of a pulse easily read in the anguished expression on Aramis’ face. “Help me roll him,” Porthos ordered, not willing to waste any time and seeing the sense of panic on the medic’s face that indicated he had no idea of what to do next. The two men moved quickly to comply, rolling the Gascon to his side and Porthos repeated his earlier actions that he’d used with Athos, hoping that the blows to the back might produce the same result.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Porthos could see Athos’ torment as he waited for a miracle to occur, while Aramis knelt on his other side praying wordlessly for divine intervention to save the young man; Porthos tuned them both out, unable to bear the sight of how much hope they were putting into his feeble attempts to bring the Gascon back to life. The gasp when it came shocked them all, but it jolted Aramis back into medic mode, Porthos moving back slightly to allow his friend better access, grateful that the young man’s life no longer depended on him. A minute passed and d’Artagnan continued to breath, painful inhales peppered with weak coughs as his lungs tried to remember how they worked.

 

The three friends sat in a loose circle around the boy, all of them wet and shivering and completely worn out by the events they’d endured, having no further reserves to draw upon after a week filled with worry, cold and wet conditions, little sleep and half-healed wounds. The only thing keeping them from collapsing completely, their unwavering focus on the young man who shakily drew breath in front of them, each man keeping a hand on some part of the Gascon’s body to assure themselves that he was still alive. 

* * *

The harbourmaster had eventually made his way through the throng of curious onlookers that had come to watch the final throws of the sinking ship, eager eyes shifting frequently to the four bedraggled men on the dock. He came bearing news of a cart and with his assistance, the men loaded the Gascon into the back, his head and shoulders cradled in Athos’ lap, one hand resting on the oddly misshapen left shoulder that had been previously injured. The other two had clambered in to sit on either side and they’d been taken back to the inn, receiving assistance to make their way to their rooms and automatically settling in the one that Athos and d’Artagnan were to have shared. When the men helping them moved to lay the Gascon on the bed, Aramis stopped them and had them place his body on the rug in front of the fireplace instead, wanting to dry the boy off before moving him to lay between the warm sheets.

 

One look at Athos and Aramis had Porthos issuing orders, sending for a physician and directing the innkeeper to stoke up the fire, bring hot water and extra blankets, followed eventually by food and wine. Athos stood with a forlorn expression, leaving no doubt of his feelings of complete desolation as he stared at their youngest, while Aramis looked so weary that Porthos was surprised the man was still standing. The large man was just as exhausted as his friends but there was still work to be done and neither of the other two seemed inclined to move.

 

Wordlessly, he moved to Athos first, remembering well the way his entire body had been racked with coughs, fighting for every wisp of air that made it into his heaving lungs – he could not watch that happen again. He began fumbling with the clasps on Athos’ doublet, gratified when his presence seemed to rouse the older man and he took over the task, giving a small nod of understanding that let him know he was aware of what needed to be done and was capable of completing it on his own.

 

Porthos came to Aramis next, the Spaniard swaying gently where he stood and the larger man guided him over to a chair, setting him down in it gently, mindful of his friend’s injured side. As with Athos, the action prompted Aramis into movement and he was soon undressed down to his braies, shivering as the air around them touched his still damp skin. Before Porthos could do anything more, a knock at the door announced the arrival of both the innkeeper and the physician, the former dropping extra blankets on one of the beds and moving to stoke the fire, as the doctor glanced around the room quickly and then headed directly for the spot where d’Artagnan lay insensate.  

 

Porthos threw a look of regret toward the Gascon, having been unable to undress the young man without help from his friends who were themselves in need of dry clothes. The result was that d’Artagnan was still fully clothed, the moisture soaking into the rug beneath him. The physician seemed unperturbed and accepted Athos’ assistance when the older man moved to his side, the two of them stripping the boy carefully before drying him with one of the fresh blankets, finally working together to move him onto the bed so he could be properly tended.

 

Athos scrubbed a hand across his face as he got his first proper look at the Gascon’s damaged body, his chest bearing several angry burn marks, the left shoulder badly distorted, and his torso and face marred by a multitude of bruises. The combined effect was nearly overwhelming and the older man clenched his hands tightly, feeling his fingernails digging into his palms, focusing on the sensation to ground him. Behind him, he was vaguely aware of movement as Aramis assisted Porthos in divesting himself of his wet clothes, draping the items across the backs of chairs and in front of the fireplace so they could dry. When the two had finished, Aramis appeared at Athos’ side, Porthos hanging back a bit to allow the physician to work, knowing that they would all require his attention before the day was out.

 

The doctor straightened from his cursory examination, pinning the three men with a hard gaze. “This man was tortured,” he stated, daring any of them to disagree.

 

Aramis nodded sadly but it was Porthos who answered, “Aye, he was captured while fulfilling his duty as a King’s Musketeer.”

 

The physician held the larger man’s gaze for a moment before giving a short nod and turning back to his patient. Aramis threw Porthos a look that begged him to take Athos away, and the large man moved forward, firmly gripping his friend’s arm and tugging him toward the fireplace, speaking lowly as he did so. “They’re gonna be a while, Athos. No reason for you to get sick again while we wait.”

 

Once Athos was moving in the right direction, Porthos snagged one of the blankets from the other bed and brought it over to where his friend waited, and the two sank to the floor, the chairs filled with their wet clothes, and they leaned against the wall, bundled together under the blanket while the doctor and Aramis worked.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos interjected, the casualness of his tone belying his words, “So, tell me what’s been going on between the two of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the great feedback on the last chapter. Finally some comfort ahead for our boys as we begin to wrap up this story, which will be 24 chapters in all. Hope you enjoy!

 

Porthos had been correct in his assertion that it would take a while for the men to tend to d’Artagnan’s injuries. By the time that the physician and Aramis finally rose from the young man’s side, Athos and Porthos had fallen into a light doze as the heat of the fire had slowly warmed them and made their limbs grow heavy with fatigue. Aramis now observed his two friends sadly, his need to make sure that they were alright warring with his desire to simply allow them to rest and buy himself a few more hours before having to share news of d’Artagnan’s injuries with them.

 

Sighing deeply, his breath hitched and he gasped instead, the action pulling on his injured side and reminding him that he had not escaped their adventure unscathed. The physician’s keen eyes noted his hesitation in waking the other two as well as his discomfort as Aramis braced his side with a hand. “Come,” the doctor said, guiding him by the elbow to sit on the second bed. “I will tend your wounds and then we can share news of the boy’s injuries together.” He handed the medic a damp cloth and motioned to his head, encouraging the Spaniard to wipe away the blood at this temple from his fall in the ship.

 

Aramis nodded gratefully, startled by the man’s perceptiveness. He was clothed only in his braies, not having had any opportunity to search out dry clothes once he’d begun caring for the Gascon. He’d known that things would likely be bad, especially after having been captured for a second time, but knowing was different from seeing and the numerous burns, cuts and contusions that marred the young man’s body had made the medic feel sick to his stomach.

 

The physician gently removed the soiled and damp bandage from around Aramis’ torso, tutting in displeasure when his side was revealed. Aramis looked down when the bandage was gone and turned paler, somewhat surprised himself to see how bad it looked. The line of stitches that he and d’Artagnan had placed were still mostly in place, although he could clearly see that a few near the middle had been torn, the skin pulling and puckered. The wound itself was red and sore and Aramis knew that he hadn’t managed to completely rid himself of the infection, the thought making him shiver with the belated realization that he was cold.

 

The doctor’s fingers moved closer and moments later were pressing against the impressive bruising that encompassed the portion of the wound where he’d torn the stitches ,and expanded outwards from there. The physician’s touch pulled a gasp from Aramis’ chest, his right hand twitching as he stilled the desire to remove the man’s hand and protect his sore side.

 

The doctor leaned back, meeting Aramis’ gaze as he said, “Your wound is infected and you’ve broken two ribs.” Aramis kept a neutral expression and gave a short nod of understanding, unable to speak as he pushed away the pain of the examination. The physician sighed as he added, “And you know I’ll need to replace those torn stitches.” The medic gave another tight nod as he breathed carefully, not yet trusting himself to speak.

 

Despite his protests, the doctor forced Aramis to lay down on the bed, pointing out that it was the best position to be able to redo the stitches, the Spaniard grudgingly agreeing. By the time the slice had been cleaned, sewn together and covered in a salve to fight infection, Aramis’ face and chest were covered in a sheen of sweat. The physician wiped his hands on a clean cloth, intending to stand and allow his patient to sleep, but a surprisingly strong grip on his wrist stopped him. “Help me sit up and bind my ribs.” The man pulled breath to protest, but Aramis didn’t give him the opportunity. “I promise I’ll rest later, but first I need to know my friends are alright.” The physician unhappily agreed, helping the medic to sit up at the edge of the bed and then wrapping his torso tightly to keep the broken bones from shifting. “Thank you,” Aramis breathed out appreciatively, already feeling the pain receding.

 

The Spaniard gained his feet with the doctor looking on disapprovingly, and he moved to the fireplace to wake his friends, motioning with one hand to the other man to stay back, knowing well how unpredictably the two might respond to being woken. “Porthos, Athos, I need you to wake up now,” Aramis called, standing a couple steps away.

 

Athos started awake, the deeper inhale accompanying his new awareness prompting him to cough painfully, the sound of which was more than enough to have Porthos’ eyes snapping open as he automatically shifted to clap his friend on the back. Aramis stepped forward and caught the larger man’s hand, giving a quick shake of his head as they waited for the coughing jag to end. At Porthos’ questioning look, the medic explained, “As long as he’s able to cough productively on his own, there’s no need for that.”

 

The larger man gave a nod of understanding and, as Athos quieted, catching his breath, asked the question that Aramis had been dreading. “How’s d’Artagnan?”

 

The physician stepped forward, knowing that it would be easier for him to provide an update to the men, “He’s suffered a great deal. Most concerning are the burns on his chest which are already showing signs of infection, and his collarbone, which is broken.”

 

Athos’ head snapped upwards at that, surprised at the revelation, “It’s broken?”

 

Aramis nodded tiredly, “I had assumed that his arm was out of joint again, but it’s the bone above that broke instead. He tried telling me that it felt different, but I thought…” he trailed off, feeling guilty that he’d been unaware of the boy’s condition and had dismissed the Gascon’s complaint as something simpler.

 

“’Mis, there’s no way you could’ve known,” Porthos assured his friend. Turning his attention to the doctor he asked, “It’ll heal?”

 

The man nodded thoughtfully, “It will be uncomfortable and he will lose the use of the arm for at least a month, but it will heal.”

 

Porthos let a breath of relief escape as Athos questioned the man, “What else?”

 

“The rest is relatively minor in comparison,” the physician shrugged as if to dismiss the other injuries they’d found, but at Athos’ glare, reluctantly continued. “His ribs are bruised and one or two may be cracked. He hit his head at some point and that is likely part of the reason he still sleeps. The wounds to his side and hand have been cleaned and stitched and will also heal assuming there’s no infection.”

 

“What wounds?” Porthos asked.

 

Aramis pulled a hand through his curls, a clear sign of his frustration and fatigue, “It’s hard to know when it happened but he had a shallow wound to his right side. Fortunately it wasn’t very deep and it was a simple matter to close. His right hand had a somewhat deeper slice that needed nearly a dozen stitches.”

 

Athos was clearly finished with the physician, having heard all he needed to and he began to struggle to his feet, only accomplishing the task by leaning heavily on the wall behind him. “Thank you, we’ll take care of him now.”

 

The physician shook his head as Aramis stepped closer, drawing breath to berate his stubborn friend, “He’s not done yet.” The medic’s eyes were dark with worry and anger at his friend’s easy dismissal of his own injuries. “You will go sit on that bed and let him look at your leg and head. Then, you will take your medicine like a good patient and sleep for at least four hours before even attempting to rise. If you do this without complaint, I’ll allow you to stay in this room instead of sending you to the one across the hall.”

 

Aramis glared at his friend, daring him to argue, and Athos stared back, refusing to be the one to break eye contact. It was Porthos’ hand on the older man’s shoulder that broke the stalemate, his words low but the pleading tone impossible to ignore, “Please, Athos, do as he asks. I can’t bear to see you that sick again.”

 

Athos’ shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded in resignation, limping to the bed and lowering himself gently to sit on the mattress, staring at the occupant of the other bed as the physician moved to examine him. While the doctor was busy with the older Musketeer, Porthos pulled Aramis to sit down on a chair, pushing aside the half-dried clothes that hung there. “How are you doin’?” he asked, not liking the dark circles under his friend’s eyes, nor the unnatural paleness of his skin.

 

Aramis almost giggled at the question, catching himself just in time, recognizing that the inappropriate response was a result of the stress and weariness his body had been forced to endure for far too long; he’d finally reached his limits and if he didn’t lay down soon, his body would shut down on its own. It was as though Porthos knew what was happening and he wordlessly moved to collect several of the extra blankets to make a pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace, the rug having dried out in the hours since they’d arrived. “Come on,” he said, pulling the Spaniard to his feet and pushing him to lay down, the man not uttering even a single sound of protest. “I’ll watch over them,’ Porthos promised and the medic’s eyes slipped closed, his body turning lax almost immediately as sleep claimed him.

 

He returned to Athos’ side, sitting on the end of the bed as the doctor finished, Porthos turning to the physician inquiringly, knowing that his friend would not be truthful about the extent of his injuries. Sensing the same, the doctor addressed the large Musketeer as he leaned back in his chair, “I’ve placed a few stitches in your friend’s leg as it had started bleeding again, and he has a lump at the back of his head, but there’s nothing to be done about that. His lungs are still congested and he’ll need to keep taking medicine for that as he’s at risk of a relapse.”

 

Porthos glanced at Athos who rolled his eyes but stayed silent. “He’ll take his medicine; I’ll make sure of it.” He pulled out the vial that Fontaine had given him and showed it to the doctor. “Will this be enough?”

 

The man peered carefully through the darkened glass, then pulled the stopper and sniffed. “I’d like him to continue taking it for at least a week and I doubt this will last. I have something similar that I’ll leave for you which he can take once this is gone.” Handing the vial back to the Musketeer, he asked, “And how is my final patient?”

 

In his peripheral vision, Porthos could see Athos’ lips quirking into a hint of a smile and he pushed down the sigh of annoyance that threatened at the doctor’s question. “I’m fine,” he said, sending a glare at his friend to keep him quiet. “I think my arm’s healing and the splint is still secure. Hurts a bit but I’ve got something for the pain.”

 

The physician motioned his intention to have a look and Porthos gave a dip of his head, giving the man permission. He bore the examination quietly and the doctor confirmed his assessment that his bones were stable and seemed to be healing well. After eliciting a promise that he’d be sent for if anyone took a turn for the worse, the physician packed up his supplies and left them alone, the sudden silence seeming deafening.

 

“Well,” Porthos said, standing from where he still sat next to Athos, “you best get some rest.” At the look of insolence on Athos’ face, the large man’s expression turned hard. “You heard Aramis, at least four hours or he’ll kick you out to sleep in the other room. And don’t think I won’t help him carry out his threat.”

 

Athos sighed, coughing briefly. “Fine,” he agreed, “you’ll watch over him?”

 

Porthos’ entire demeanor softened as he replied, “Course I will. Do you even have to ask?”

 

Athos knew he didn’t but his concern for the Gascon tore at his heart and he desperately needed the boy well enough to make amends for his earlier actions. While he didn’t like it, he knew that Aramis was correct and his body was in desperate need of sleep, the heaviness of before already threatening to return as his breathing grew more labored. Wordlessly, he accepted the vial that Porthos offered him and took the requisite amount, praying that it would be enough to stave off further illness. After giving it back, he reclined on the bed, smiling wearily in thanks to his friend who’d thoughtfully added more pillows so that he could lay partially upright, making his breathing easier. His last view was of Porthos’ fond grin and then his eyes closed as he succumbed to the enticing allure of sleep. 

* * *

Athos had always had a reliable internal clock and four hours later, nearly to the second, he awoke drawing a deep breath that had him coughing and searching for a handkerchief as he felt the familiar awful taste in his mouth that indicated his lungs were continuing to clear themselves of the masses that had clogged them. Once he’d successful disposed of the offensive mucus, he turned his gaze to the second bed and found Porthos observing him. Without moving, he asked lowly, “How is he?”

 

Porthos’ expression remained neutral as he replied, “The same as before.”

 

Athos gave a tilt of his head and let his eyes drift to the bundle that lay in front of the fireplace, “How is he?”

 

“Still fighting infection and I’m pretty sure he hurt his ribs on the ship,” Porthos answered, his gaze also settling on the sleeping Spaniard. “You?”

 

Athos gave a small shrug but the action pulled on his chest and had him coughing once more and he closed his eyes as he waited for the ache in his lungs to ease so he could breathe more effortlessly. When he opened them, the large man was standing beside his bed, offering a glass of water which Athos accepted gratefully, relishing the feeling of the cool water as it trickled down his throat. “Would you believe I’m fine?”

 

Porthos snorted and Athos’ lips turned up in satisfaction at seeing the hint of a smile on his friend’s face. “The truth?” Athos asked, and his friend nodded. “Not much better than before. If this goes on much longer, I may give up all hope of ever being able to breathe freely again.”

 

Porthos laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed, being far too familiar with the frustration that accompanied recovery from severe illness. He knew that Athos was a fighter and he would continue to battle until he was healthy again, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t allowed a few moments of self-pity. “If it makes you feel any better, you and Aramis will probably be back on duty before either me or d’Artagnan.”

 

The larger man’s words brought home the severity of the Gascon’s condition and Athos’ eyes landed on the lax face once more. The fact that the boy hadn’t woken since they’d rescued him from the sinking ship was beginning to wear on all of them, and a part of Athos wanted Aramis to awake if only to reassure them that the young man was still alright. Porthos allowed a large yawn to escape, being the only one who hadn’t slept since their arrival at the inn. The sight had Athos wincing guiltily and he eased himself upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “I think you and I had better trade places for a few hours,” he said, his voice raspy after days of coughing.

 

Porthos gave a slow nod as he countered, “How about a late dinner first? It’s been hours since we’ve eaten.” The suggestion made Athos’ stomach growl in reply, pulling a grin from the larger man as he turned toward the door. “Your clothes should be dry by now. I’ll go find us something to eat.”

 

With Porthos’ departure, Athos pulled himself to his feet, pleased when he felt only a moment of dizziness. He gingerly placed weight onto his right leg and gritted his teeth against the discomfort it caused, before limping over to the chairs to collect his shirt and breeches so he could get dressed. He’d been honest with Porthos about how he was feeling, and he knew that his body waffled on the border between getting better and falling ill once more. The result was that his limbs lacked their usual strength and he found himself continuously struggling to pull in more air, leaving him lightheaded after the barest exertions, which included crossing the room to get dressed. When he’d managed the task, he remained seated on the chair, waiting until he had sufficient breath and strength to rise. Once he’d recovered enough, he made his way back to the chair that Porthos had vacated and sat down at the Gascon’s side, reaching a hand forward to feel the boy’s damp brow.

 

As expected, d’Artagnan’s forehead was hot, his face flushed with fever from the infected burns on his chest. Athos pulled the young man’s blanket down, folding it back to reveal his torso and the white bandages that wrapped around it, hiding the burnt skin from view. More linen was wound around the Gascon’s left shoulder and arm, securing the limb firmly in place to allow the broken bone to mend. The bruising on the boy’s face had darkened, giving him an impressive black eye, and more colors painted his cheekbone and chin. While the signs of his injuries were horrific to see, the worst thing was d’Artagnan’s utter stillness, broken only by the even rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

 

“It looks worse than it is,” Aramis’ voice startled the older man, his gaze shifting sharply to the side where the medic now stood beside him.

 

“Why hasn’t he woken yet?” Athos asked, needing confirmation that the boy would wake.

 

Aramis scrubbed a hand through his curls as he sighed, “Honestly, I think he’s just exhausted. Our journey was not exactly relaxing and I’d hazard that he got little if any rest while he was in Pritchard’s hands.” He paused for a moment as he collected his thoughts, “Look, I won’t lie to you. It’s not ideal that he hasn’t been awake but it’s too soon for us to worry. For now we need to keep his wounds clean and keep him comfortable and he’ll likely wake tomorrow.”

 

Athos gave a short nod, willing, for now at least, to believe his friend’s words and give the young man more time for his body to heal. Sound at the door had both men turning toward it to find Porthos entering, followed by the innkeeper who carried a full tray in front of him. He set it deftly down on the table, pulling an additional bottle from a deep pocket and placing it next to the tray. At Porthos’ nod of thanks, the man retreated and Aramis tugged at Athos’ arm until the man stood and the two walked over to the larger man at the table.

 

The logical choice would have been to use the two chairs and the second bed, but after sharing a quick look, the men brought their meals and wine to the floor next to the fireplace, sitting three across with their legs stretched out in front of them. They made short work of the bread and stew and, when they’d all wiped their bowls clean, Athos poured three glasses of wine. As he set the bottle down beside him and moved to take a drink, Porthos interjected, the casualness of his tone belying his words, “So, tell me what’s been going on between the two of you.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos exchanged hesitant looks as the older man pleaded with them, “Please.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the great comments about Porthos' role in the last chapter. The boys' talk is coming up next!

Aramis looked stricken at Porthos’ words and the large man was certain that if his friend could bolt from the room in order to avoid the coming confrontation, he would. Fortunately, Porthos had positioned himself on the marksman’s right side, allowing him the freedom to use his left hand to hold the man in place physically if necessary, as well as placing the medic between his two friends. The result was that Aramis wore an expression of fear and betrayal, shocked at the conversation that had been broached and having little opportunity to flee from it.

 

Athos, for his part, remained calm, at least on the exterior. Only someone who knew him well could see the slight tensing of his shoulders, straightening his back as he readied himself for the difficult discussion that lay ahead. To his credit, he appeared to have no intention of avoiding the question and was merely waiting for Aramis to take the lead since the secret they protected was the Spaniard’s.

 

With effort, Aramis swallowed thickly, bringing the glass of wine to his lips and draining it in its entirety, Athos refilling it without being asked. Both men could see the slight tremble in the medic’s hands and waited patiently for him to compose himself. “I had rather thought we’d addressed this already, Porthos,” Aramis began, his eyes pleading with the large man to let things drop but his friend remained silent.

 

“Porthos,” Aramis tried again, “you agreed that you would allow me to keep my secret. You _promised_ me that you would not pry.” His voice cracked on the last words but the larger man gave him no quarter, sitting quietly, his gaze steadily meeting that of the marksman’s, and Aramis took a steadying breath as he resigned himself to answering the question. “It’s complicated,” he began, meeting Athos’ eyes and looking for support in the bright blue orbs.

 

Athos gave a dip of his head in agreement as he offered, “It is complicated and I believe that we can discuss the strain between us without revealing the seed from which it grew. Would that be satisfactory?” The question was addressed to Porthos and the man gave a return nod, letting both men know that he was concerned only with repairing the relationship between them.

 

Aramis grasped onto the concession and stumbled over his words as he struggled to explain, unwilling to let things between himself and Porthos deteriorate again. “I made a mistake, and its nature is grave, so much so that your life would become forfeit if this mistake is ever revealed and if your knowledge of it surfaced.” Porthos gave a minor tilt of his head, encouraging the man to continue beyond what he’d already shared during their earlier conversation. “This _mistake_ has ongoing consequences that I have been unable to ignore and which continue to place me and others in peril. The discord between me and Athos stems from my inability to resist being drawn back to these consequences and,” he paused for a moment, capturing Athos’ gaze once more, “I believe Athos’ anger is a result of the worry he holds for me.”

 

Athos gave another slow nod in agreement, Porthos sitting quietly lest he distract the two men from the discussion they needed to finish. “I would feel better if you could extend a promise,” Athos started before Aramis interrupted.

 

“I cannot,” the Spaniard declared quickly. Taking a breath, he clarified, “I will not give you a promise I know I cannot keep.”

 

In that moment, Athos recognized the truth in his friend’s words and realized that it was not for lack of wanting to stay away, but a complete inability to do so, drawn to the Queen and Dauphin as a moth is to a flame. That understanding changed things significantly, shifting the older man’s view of Aramis’ actions from that of flippantly irresponsibility to steadfast devotion, something which had not only bewitched the Queen but his own heart as well, since the man’s loyalty was part of what had drawn him to Aramis in the first place. “I understand,” Athos said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but the Spaniard was so focused on what his friend would say that he heard the words regardless. “I’m sorry.”

 

The absolution in Athos’ statement washed away months of guilt and shame and Aramis nearly slumped in relief, not daring to believe that he could be forgiven so easily. But Athos knew his friend well and understood so much more than the Spaniard realized, like the fact that he was grounded and reassured by touch, so he pulled the man to his chest, allowing him to draw comfort from the embrace while Porthos looked on, a grin painting his face.

 

Aramis finally levered himself up but remained sitting with his shoulder touching Athos’. He noted the expression of joy that Porthos wore but instead of cheering him it brought another pang of remorse and his face fell. Fearing that the medic was unwell, the larger man hurried to ask, “Aramis, are you alright? What’s wrong?”

 

Aramis smiled faintly at his friend’s predictable worry, something more that he’d missed during the last few months. “I’m fine, Porthos, but I owe you an apology.”

 

Porthos’ face clouded with confusion, “We already talked earlier, remember.”

 

Aramis shook his head, “No, you accepted my need to keep my secret but haven’t yet given me a chance to apologize.” The words brought no additional clarity and the larger man’s brow remained furrowed. “Porthos, you are my oldest and dearest friend and I have treated you badly.”

 

“I know, Aramis, and it’s fine,” Porthos tried once more.

 

“It’s not fine and you’re far too forgiving, a fact that I hope will now work in my favour,” the Spaniard’s tremulous smile returned as he said this last bit. “Porthos, I could have done more when you asked me for help finding your father. I _will_ do more when we return to Paris. I only hope you can forgive me for not helping you sooner.”

 

The expression on Porthos’ face told the medic everything he needed to know and moments later Aramis found himself embraced for the second time, this time against the larger man’s chest, the one-armed hug no less intense than Athos’ had been. When he finally released his friend, Porthos met each of the men’s gazes in turn as he confirmed, “We good?” He received two answering nods in reply before their attention naturally gravitated to their absent fourth, d’Artagnan the last missing piece that would make them whole again. Wordlessly, they settled back into position against the wall, drinking their wine as they waited for the Gascon to wake.

* * *

Porthos had been chivvied back to bed after their conversation, the larger man completely unable to hide his weariness any longer and the pain in his arm ramping up after excitement of the day, bringing lines of pain to his face that Aramis was no longer able to ignore. The medic forced the physician’s draught on him and made sure he was ensconced in the warm bed, before briefly checking d’Artagnan’s condition and retaking his place on the floor next to Athos. Normally, he or the older man would have taken up position between the beds, but for some reason their physical proximity by the fireplace brought them both the comfort they desperately needed, and neither man was inclined to move away from the other.

 

They drank quietly for a while, the silence between them comfortable once more and, when the wine was gone, their eyes drifted close and they slept. It wasn’t until dawn approached that Athos’ coughing reached a point where it woke them both and Aramis looked sadly at the ill face of his friend. The medic felt the older man’s brow, confirming with a touch that the man was getting sick again. Silently, he stood, bracing his sore side before lending a hand to coax Athos to his feet, the latter taking his friend’s hand but refusing to give over any of his weight. Aramis led the way back to the bed where Porthos slept, beginning to push Athos down to lie next to the larger man. “Aramis, no,” Athos protested, but the medic simply rolled his eyes and glared until the older man did as he’d asked.

 

For the next several hours Aramis sat between the two beds, doing his best to push aside his own pain and ignore the growing ache in his bones that signified his fever’s return. He was loathe to unwrap his torso to access his wound, needing the bandaging to brace his broken ribs and, in the end, the desire to keep the bones stable won out over the need to deal with his infected wound, at least until one of his friends woke to help him. He kept watch over the men, observing Athos’ steady decline and shaking his head in disbelief at Porthos’ ability to sleep through the older man’s increasingly frequent coughs. d’Artagnan remained eerily still, only the gentle rise and fall of his chest letting the Spaniard know that he was still alive.

 

By the time that Porthos awoke, Aramis’ face was flushed with fever and he sat hunched over his sore ribs, shivering since his body was unable to regulate its temperature. Porthos took one look at Athos beside him and then at Aramis, and was rolling from the bed, tugging at the medic’s arm to take the spot he’d just vacated. The medic balked, but only for as long as it took for Porthos to help him access and clean his wound and then rewrap his ribs, falling onto the mattress with a sigh as he tucked in close to Athos, seeking the other man’s warmth.

 

For twenty-four hours Porthos cared for his ill friends, leaving their sides only to arrange for more food, water or bandages to be brought. He napped in between bouts of coughing, back to clapping Athos’ back when he couldn’t draw breath, looking beseechingly at Porthos each time as he feared he would suffocate. Each time, Porthos’ calm presence was there and his breath returned, albeit it never seemed to be as much as his body craved and he panted almost constantly.

 

The large man was beyond fatigued but steadfast in tending to the men, wiping at their brows when their fevers increased, pouring medicine and broth down their throats, and comforting them with soothing words and touches. When Aramis opened his eyes the following day, his skin finally cooling, Porthos nearly wept with relief. “Aramis, thank God,” he breathed out, grateful to see the medic’s clear, dark eyes staring back at him, comprehension shining in them at last. Grasping the cup of water from the table beside the bed, he handed it to Aramis, waiting until the man’s grip tightened to release his hold.

 

Aramis sipped at it gratefully, his throat parched from the hours he’d spent sweating as the fever had burned its way through his body. His limbs felt heavy but the ache from before was gone, replaced with only the familiar throb from his broken ribs. “Thank you,” he said as he handed the cup back to his friend. “How long?”

 

“Only a day, but,” Porthos shrugged as he looked between the two beds.

 

Aramis gave a nod of understanding, knowing his friend would have spent the entire time caring for all of them, a daunting task for a healthy man, let alone one with a broken arm and hovering on the edge of exhaustion. He began to make motions to get up but Porthos’ light touch on his chest had him stilling. Meeting the larger man’s gaze, he offered a questioning look.

 

“Eat something first,” Porthos suggested. “I only managed to get a bit of broth into you.”

 

Aramis seemed doubtful about the idea but one look at the larger man’s concerned face had him agreeing, if only to make Porthos feel better. He managed some bread with another cup of broth before he was allowed out of bed, moving to check on d’Artagnan since he’d already checked on Athos’ condition as he’d laid next to the man. Porthos had confirmed that he’d been diligent about getting the older man to take his medicine, but it didn’t seem to yet be making a difference and Athos slept restlessly, uncomfortable as his overheated body fought the infection in his chest.

 

d’Artagnan contrasted starkly with mentor’s form, lying deathly still and not showing any signs that he was ready to wake. Each hour that passed increased their worry that the boy might pass away without ever becoming aware, his body battling infection from the burns Pritchard had so callously inflicted. Incredibly, his other wounds remained clear and were pink and tender as they began to heal; it was a minor thing, but his friends needed every small sign of hope they could latch onto. “He doesn’t seem any better,” Porthos commented sullenly, too tired to even try to sound optimistic.

 

Aramis hummed noncommittally, unwilling to admit that the Gascon’s condition was dire and doing his best to remain hopeful that the boy would recover. With a quick glance over his shoulder at the other man, the medic said, “Get some sleep, Porthos. It will take both of us to bring our brothers back to health.” Porthos had done as Aramis had asked and another twenty-four hours passed with the two men taking turns to care for their friends, with no signs of improvement.

 

They sat together now, on the morning of their third day, sharing a light breakfast despite the fact that neither of them had much of an appetite. Porthos had gone out the day prior to send a message to Treville, advising the Captain of their mixed results, having successfully delivered their package, only for it to end up at the bottom of the ocean along with the ship. Both men recognized that they would be unable to travel for some time and, as their friends’ conditions remained uncertain, they could not even provide their commanding officer with an estimated timeframe for their return.

 

A weak cry from one of the beds had both men sharply lifting their heads from their meals, waiting for the sound to be repeated to indicate which of their friends was in distress. Moments later they heard it again and were able to see d’Artagnan roll his head as he whimpered lowly. The two moved in tandem, Aramis sitting on the edge of the bed while Porthos sat beside him, the latter gripping the Gascon’s ankle lightly as the medic tried to get the young man to wake.

 

“He alright?” a breathless voice asked from the other bed, Porthos looking over at Athos’ words while Aramis’ attention remained on their youngest.

 

Biting his lip for a moment as the medic continued to coax d’Artagnan to wake, Porthos replied, “Think he’s finally decided to join us. That’s a good sign.”

 

Athos gave a small tilt of his head, too weak from battling the illness that had returned in full force to do anything else. His eyes drifted to the Gascon’s face as he waited to see what would happen next. The young man was moving with more energy now, his head tossing and murmured words escaping his lips, the fingers of his bandaged right hand twitching as he struggled with unseen demons.

 

“d’Artagnan, you must open your eyes,” Aramis cajoled, a warm hand resting on the boy’s uninjured shoulder as he attempted to rouse the young man. “Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. Open your eyes and you’ll see I speak the truth.”

 

The medic’s words had little impact and he could see how d’Artagnan’s eyes rolled beneath their closed lids, fighting against whatever images his tortured mind had conjured. As his whimpers increased, Athos called to them again, “Move me closer.” His arm was outstretched toward the Gascon and his face begged with them for help. Aramis and Porthos exchanged hesitant looks as the older man pleaded with them, “Please.” The anguish on Athos’ face had the two rising but it was Porthos who took the lead, understanding Aramis’ concern about having the injured men in one bed and jostling each other.

 

He picked up the chair that sat between the two beds, motioning to the small table as he said, “Move that so we can push the beds together.” Aramis rushed to comply, pulling the table across the floor when his ribs protested its weight. Through sheer force of will, the two friends managed to push Athos’ bed toward d’Artagnan’s until the older man was able to reach the younger man and his fingers sought out the Gascon’s right arm, gripping the wrist tightly. “d’Artagnan, you’re safe,” he croaked, his throat wrecked again from the persistent coughing. “Peace, brother, there’s no need for worry.” A painful set of coughs accompanied his last words but they seemed to have had the desired effect, the young man calming at his mentor’s voice and settling once more.

 

Aramis stood by shaking his head while Porthos smiled in satisfaction at the effect that the older man had on the younger one, a testament to the strength of the bond that existed between them.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite the uncertainty that lay ahead of them, one thing they were sure of was that they would face it and survive together, as brothers.

As had become their routine, Aramis and Porthos alternated in caring for their friends as well as ensuring their arrangements at the inn continued for as many days as they might need. Porthos was leery of allowing Aramis to do too much, fearing the return of his fever or further injury from his broken ribs. For his part, the medic was just as protective of his friend, keeping an eye out for any signs of pain that indicated the large man had overdone things, and urging him to rest when the ache in his arm grew too fierce.

 

Athos had finally begun to improve, his fever falling marginally and his awareness improving as a result. He was still coughing and persistently short of breath, but his eyes were clearer than they had been and focused steadfastly on the young man in the bed beside him. They’d suggested moving the two beds apart and Athos had glared at them until they realized the folly of that recommendation, the older man unwilling to shift from his protégé’s side. d’Artagnan had begun to show increasing signs of waking, often punctuated by anxious movements that Aramis feared were causing the young man pain. Each time, Athos managed to soothe the Gascon with a touch and soft words, and the older man ended up keeping a consistent point of contact between them, even when he slept.

 

It was now late afternoon and Athos was laying partially reclined in his bed, enjoying a brief span of wakefulness, an occurrence that had been all too scarce over the past few days. He could hear Porthos’ muted snores from where the large man slept on the pallet he’d made near the fireplace, and knew that Aramis had taken the opportunity to step outside for a few minutes when he’d seen Athos awake and resting comfortably. Rolling his head to the side, his gaze landed on the Gascon, shocked to see two dull, dark eyes watching him.

 

“d’Artagnan,” he whispered, taking great care not to aggravate his throat and chest. “How are you feeling?”

 

The young man licked his cracked lips, struggling to answer the man’s question, “Wha’?” He broke off as his dry throat closed and he coughed weakly against the feeling. Giving his arm a squeeze, Athos released his hold and moved carefully to his other side where the small table now sat holding a pitcher of water and a cup. Fortunately, the latter was already filled and he wrapped his hand around it, shifting once more to the opposite side so he could help d’Artagnan drink.

 

Carefully raising the boy’s head with one hand, he tipped the cup toward the Gascon’s mouth with the other, and the young man had several sips before it was pulled away. d’Artagnan grimaced as his head was replaced on the pillow, bringing a cringe to Athos’ face as he realized the motion must have jarred the boy’s broken collarbone. He waited patiently as the young man breathed shallowly in an effort to manage his pain, opening his eyes to look at Athos when he felt better. “What happened?”

 

Athos dropped his head for a moment, wondering where to begin and how much of the horrific events the boy recalled. “What do you remember?”

 

d’Artagnan’s gaze skittered away for several moments as he searched his memory, eyes returning to Athos’ face when realization dawned. “Oh, God, the ship was sinking,” he said, voice filled with panic.

 

Athos returned his hand to the boy’s arm as he nodded, “Yes, be we got you out.” He stopped there, unable to finish the rest of the sentence – _but not before you died_.

 

d’Artagnan swallowed and the older man helped him have another drink, the action pulling again on his broken bones. The Gascon’s eyes flicked to the source of his pain and he asked, “What happened to me?”

 

Deciding to stick to the facts, Athos explained, “Your left collarbone is broken and the burns on your chest became infected. Your side and your hand both needed stitches and are healing well.”

 

d’Artagnan tried to make a fist with his right hand, stopping part-way through the motion as he gasped at the sharp pain that flared. Athos moved his hand down to gently cover it, giving his head a shake to prevent further attempts. “That’s probably not a good idea just yet.”

 

The Gascon gave a slight nod as he stated, “I was trapped.” Athos gave a dip of his head, forcing himself to meet the boy’s gaze. “I thought I was going to die there.”

 

The statement had Athos turning away, and he used the excuse of replacing the cup on the table as an opportunity to regain his composure before facing the young man again. “But you didn’t.” He said, forcing his voice to stay steady.

 

“Is that why you forgave me?” d’Artagnan asked, causing Athos’ breathing to hitch and making him cough for several seconds. When he’d managed to calm his rebellious lungs, the Gascon continued. “Are you sick again because of me?”

 

Clearly the young man remembered far more than Athos had given him credit for, now asking questions that he felt wholly unprepared to answer. Biding his time again, the older man reached for the cup and took a sip to soothe his throat before he returned to answer. “The answer to both questions is no. I am sick because a madman decided to blow up the ship and I forgave you because I wanted to.”

 

d’Artagnan was observing Athos carefully and though his eyes were still glazed with fever and pain, his comments had proven that his mind was sharp. He looked unconvinced and was waiting for Athos to continue, something that the older man was loathe to do, not having the right words, but he held back a sigh and pressed on regardless. “d’Artagnan, the months since Milady’s return have been unsettling. Finding her with you and the King was… _unexpected_. To know that she now lies with Louis is…” he trailed off, unsure how to describe his feelings about his wife’s current lover.

 

“Disturbing?” d’Artagnan offered, making Athos’ lips quirk softly at the understatement which was so similar to what he would have done.

 

“Yes, disturbing,” he agreed softly. “I know that doesn’t excuse my conduct and I can only ask that you forgive me for my poor behaviour. I should not have expected you or the others to be a party to it, nor relied upon you to return my drunken form home each night.”

 

d’Artagnan’s right arm was shifting, his hand moving now to loosely grip Athos’ as he countered, “You should not need to expect it; you should simply know it to be fact.” The older man looked at him sharply as the Gascon continued. “We are brothers, Athos, and yet we have treated each other worse than strangers these past months. It ends, now.”

 

Athos gave a slow nod of agreement, once more impressed by his protégé. “The others?” d’Artagnan asked, needing to know that the dissonance that had plagued their foursome would not endure.

 

“As Porthos would say, we’re good,” Athos replied, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

 

“Good,” d’Artagnan breathed out as his grip relaxed further and he seemed to sink back into the mattress, the brief conversation sapping his limited energy.

 

“You’re in pain,” Athos stated, seeing the lines around the young man’s eyes deepening even as his breaths quickened, now paying for his earlier resolve to settle things between himself and the older man. He stayed silent and Athos began to move away, intent on locating the pain medication Porthos had been given, but the larger man beat him to it.

 

“Here,” Porthos said as he handed the vial to Athos. At the older man’s questioning eyebrow, the large man shrugged and said, “I caught the end but didn’t want to interrupt.”

 

Athos wanted to be upset but found he didn’t have it in him, too relieved that d’Artagnan had woken and that they’d resolved the discord between them. He tipped the vial to the Gascon’s mouth, allowing a couple of drops to fall, and d’Artagnan swallowed them gratefully, desperate for some relief. The longer he and Athos had talked, the worse the pain had become, until he could no longer ignore the escalating throb that centred in his clavicle and dispersed outwards from there, mingling with his other injuries until he felt nearly overwhelmed. He felt Athos’ hand return to his arm and focused on the sensation, hearing a litany of low words in the background that lulled him back to sleep.

 

When d’Artagnan’s breathing evened out again, Athos pushed himself back against his pillows, allowing the coughs that had been building in his chest to release and then gratefully taking the cup of water from Porthos’ hand to ease the rawness of his throat. He passed the empty cup back and let his eyes land on his friend’s face, Porthos now sitting on the edge of his bed. “You alright?” the man questioned, concern evident in his eyes.

 

Athos gave a dip of his head, “Better, actually.”

 

Porthos’ eyes darted to the sleeping Gascon, “You good?”

 

The older man couldn’t help the wistful smile that emerged as he answered, “We’re good.”

 

Porthos’ face lit up with a grin. It seemed that his friends were finally on the mend, but most importantly, had overcome the conflict that had grown between them for so many months. Gone were the days of harsh words and unkind gestures, the space they’d occupied filling once more with the camaraderie and devotion they held for one another. Athos’ face had grown lax as he’d drifted off to sleep and Porthos observed him fondly, still sitting at the man’s side when Aramis entered, sensing the shift in atmosphere at once.

 

Moving to stand beside the larger man, he placed a hand on Porthos’ shoulder as he asked, “They talked?” Porthos gave a nod in reply and Aramis’ features softened as the tension leaked from his bones. They could finally begin to heal. 

* * *

They remained in Le Havre for another week, receiving word from the Captain to take as much time as they required, as well receiving additional funds to cover their expenses. It was an unnecessary kindness that put a smile on the men’s faces, appreciative of Treville’s generosity despite the fact that the Captain knew Athos would pay for whatever was required.

 

When they finally arrived back home, Treville invited them to his office and poured them each a generous measure of brandy as he related the tale the English Ambassador had shared with him. It seemed that anti-French sentiment in England was high and there was no love lost for the French Queen who sat at the English King’s side. The rebels who’d attacked them during their trip had been the same ones who’d attacked the previous convoys, and their members had been just as active at home on English soil, although their efforts there had not been nearly as violent.

 

Pritchard had been known to the Ambassador, and the diplomat had found out later that Bertrand had been the rebel’s accomplice. It was Bertrand who had placed the gunpowder on the ship and he’d died, along with the missing valet, when the charges went off prematurely. Later, they discovered that innkeepers and tavern owners along the routes between Paris and Le Havre had been coerced into providing the rebels with information, paid handsomely each time they sent word that soldiers were travelling past. Despite the fact that the Musketeers hadn’t taken advantage of any of these luxuries during their journey, the roads they’d been on had taken them within sight of the rebels’ informants, which prompted the mercenaries’ attacks.

 

When the four men heard the tale, they downed Treville’s expensive brandy and left without a word; there was simply nothing they could say about a mission that had turned into such a fiasco. But the experience hadn’t been all bad and it had brought the men back together, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Captain, the anxiety in his chest easing as he realized the inseparables were back. It had taken several weeks for things to return to normal, but they eventually did, Porthos’ prediction coming true when he and d’Artagnan were off duty the longest while they waited for their broken bones to mend. Athos and Aramis were their constant companions whenever duty allowed, despite the fact that Constance doted on the Gascon during his infirmity.

 

The months after that mission had not been easy, but the men’s newfound bonds had been resilient enough to buffer them against the worst of their woes and in the end they’d survived Porthos’ discovery of his father, Bonacieux’s death, d’Artagnan and Constance’s wedding, Aramis’ admission and Athos’ change of heart regarding his wife. Now, they stood on the brink of war, riding to collect the Spaniard and convince him to release himself from the promise he’d made while in prison. Despite the uncertainty that lay ahead of them, one thing they were sure of was that they would face it and survive together, as brothers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouragement this story has received and for the great comments and kudos along the way. As always, I'm sad to see the end of a story and have started work on another, this one a collaboration with another talented author on this site. I hope you'll join us when we begin to post and, until then, thank you for taking some of your valuable time and choosing to spend it reading this story.


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